Blue Moon Rising
by Harrigan
Summary: Complete!  Halloween 2001. Tension is rising in the Winchester household and something needs to be done about it. Dean is the brains this time and Sam is the brawn, and Equal Opportunity Whumpage ensues when the brothers encounter their first werewolf.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Blue Moon Rising  
Author: Harrigan  
**

Beta work extraordinaire by: quellefromage, shallowz and miz24601

Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers (it's pre-series; Sam's a senior in high school), but it's been totally Kripke'd by 'Heart' !  
**  
**Disclaimer: oh Kripke! You own us, not the other way around.

(Credit also to the brilliant Maurice Sendak, whose classic book "Where the Wild Things Are" is quoted in this story.)

Authors note: This story is complete and runs between 25,000-26,000 words. Rumor has it some folks actually prefer to have something that length split into shorter chapters, so as an experiment I am breaking it up and will post it in 4 sections over the next week.

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**Part 1 of 4 **

(Tuesday October 30, 2001)

_**There are some things Dean Winchester knows deep in his bones, no book learning required.**_

_**He knows the sky – and what's hidden there. Even when the clouds roll in and cover everything like a cheap army blanket, Dean knows if the moon is creeping across the night sky behind those clouds; knows whether it's a crescent sliver rising high overhead, or a fat shining softball sinking toward the horizon.**_

_**He knows his place in the world - always knows where he is. Some of that knowledge is ingrained from a lifetime of traveling across truck stop America, and some is due to an exceptional memory for places he has been or passed. But more than that, he has an instinctive sense of direction, always knows where true north lies. His brain's just wired that way.**_

_**He knows right now, too. Dean could wake up in the dark from a sound sleep and know within five minutes what time it is. He might not have much insight into any future that could be different than here-and-now, but he knows right now.**_

_**And he knows his brother and his father. He knows the tension between them lately is drawing tighter than the trip wire to a claymore landmine. **_

_**What he doesn't know is how to stop the imminent explosion. Not for sure. But he's developing a plan. **_

-----------

Dean emerged from the shower less bleary-eyed but more confused.

The Winchester family had spent most of his lifetime in pretty tight quarters, and the current trailer was no exception. It was second nature by now to be aware of who was home and who wasn't, even when they were out of sight.

Walking into the kitchen, pulling on clothes that he'd snagged from the dryer, Dean felt it. That tickling sense of unease that told him he was alone. It was barely dawn - and he had no idea where his father and brother were.

He'd staggered in before first light, oblivious to whether or not Dad's truck was parked outside, still basking in the scent of an amorous little co-ed named Marcy. Or Margie. Whatever. He hadn't written her name on the note he'd left her. He hoped.

Now she was a fading memory as the silence of his surroundings sank in. It wasn't the silence of a sleeping household. It was something more ominous than that.

A chill brushed the still-damp hair on the back of his neck.

Where were Sam and Dad?

A hunt, maybe?

No, no way.

Dad didn't always come back when he said he would, but he _never_ left on a case without telling him. _Never_. And besides - Dad and Sam on a hunt together, without him? No way that could end well. They'd end up battling each other, instead of taking down whatever evil they were stalking.

So – what was going on?

The answering machine held one new message, but not from either of them. The call was an hour old – so they'd been gone longer than that.

What could make them leave before the crack of dawn?

Dean stood stock still, eyes raking the empty room. The kitchen table held nothing but an empty Pabst Blue Ribbon, surrounded by a wide scattering of drops. He glanced up. Someone had hammered the bottle against the table like a gavel, pounding it with enough violence to spray the ceiling.

The air in the room felt heavy, thrumming with the echoes of harsh words, bitter and angry, clashing like broadswords.

His shoulders twitched, coming down a notch from a state of alert, exchanging one kind of tension for another. The threat hadn't come from outside.

Dean checked the room he shared with Sam next, looking for any signs of what had prompted the argument or where Sam had gone.

His brother's side of the room was as orderly as his giant geek brain. It only took a glance to determine that Sam's meager possessions were still there, and Dean huffed a small sigh of relief. But whatever had happened, Sam had reacted by slamming the bedroom door hard enough to crack the frame.

A wad of paper caught his eye, fiercely crumpled into a tight ball, but flattened by a high velocity impact against the wall. Dean smoothed it out; saw the letterhead of a prestigious law firm. It was addressed to Sam and began:

_Our firm selects only the most focused, dynamic, and high-energy students with exceptional research and communication abilities. Responsibilities for this internship will include web research, writing, clerical and administrative tasks…._

Part-time starting next semester, followed by a full-time job offer in the summer. And it paid.

Mystery solved.

Dad had obviously said no. He had his reasons; always did. Probably planning to pull up stakes soon, moving yet again to follow another cryptic trail of mutilations and mysterious deaths.

It was pretty much the only life he and Sam had ever known. It fit Dean, settled comfortably on his shoulders like a well-worn leather jacket. But Sammy? He just wouldn't quit growing, straining at the seams lately, tugging at the fabric of a life that was too confining. Sometimes Sam could swallow his frustration and put it behind him. But when it was still festering hours later, he would wake early, restless, and take off on a run. Grueling seven-minute miles down rural county roads until he was too exhausted to be pissed any more.

The fact that Sam was still out there meant he was plenty pissed this time.

But - where was Dad?

Dean stuck his head out the front door, found the rain coming down in sheets, gusts of wind driving icy needles against his exposed face and neck. The truck must have pulled out hours ago, he realized, before the rain had turned the dirt-packed drive to mud. All that was left in its spot was an empty whiskey bottle.

Dean knew what that meant. Subconsciously, he'd probably been expecting it.

This didn't have anything to do with Sam.

When it came to the cusp of days between October and November… if John Winchester didn't have a supernatural demon to pursue, then it was inner demons that pursued him instead. Escape was usually sought in the bottom of a bottle. As many bottles as it took to forget the pain of what he had lost; the guilt at having been unable to save Mary.

Dean was drawing back inside when he saw a lanky figure jogging up the road. In his head, he'd known Sam would be back, but his heart? It unclenched a little at the sight of his brother returning home, safe. Dean waited there, propping the door open when Sam finally stumbled in, drenched.

"You get enough of a cool-down?" Dean asked.

Sam bent over, breathing hard, hands on knees, water dripping from his saturated bangs and sliding down the ski jump slope of his broad nose. He shrugged a slight affirmative to the double entendre, then straightened. "Dad didn't come back?"

Dean swallowed his anger – mad at Sam for being mad at Dad - and just shook his head. Their father faced pain like a wounded animal that crawls off to suffer alone. He'd be gone for days. Sam knew that, and why, just as plainly as Dean did.

Dean was good at giving his dad space when he demanded it. He was good at meeting all of his father's demands. Always had been.

Unlike Sammy.

In the last few months, it seemed like nothing Sam did satisfied their dad. Or vice versa. And it was getting worse. It was time, Dean thought, to get Sam with the program. Before someone started hurling bottles at the walls instead of paper. Before the door frame that splintered was the front door slamming shut, and before the footsteps fading in the distance disappeared for good, instead of turning around and coming back.

And suddenly, staring absently at the answering machine, Dean felt the knot in his gut ease a little.

He had an idea.

"Got us a job," he said when Sam joined him in the kitchen, wearing frayed jeans, and buttoning a faded denim shirt. Sam opened the refrigerator and slaked his thirst with orange juice straight from the carton. "A hunt," Dean clarified when Sam raised an inquiring brow.

"Dad left us coordinates?"

Dean could hear the surprise and rising hope in Sam's voice. And how fucked up was that? Dad missing wasn't unusual, but they were more relieved if he was risking his life on a hunt, than if he was just safely passed out in an alley or locked up in a drunk tank somewhere again.

"Nope – there's a voice mail from Duck. He needs help with a case up in Wisconsin."

"Duck?" Sam's eyes sparked, and dimples flashed from a pleased grin. "We haven't heard from him in months!"

"It's a full moon this week. Probably some kind of werewolf, Sammy," Dean added, waggling his eyebrows invitingly. "Wanna go?"

Sam sighed, his grin fading. "It's the middle of the week, Dean." He tossed the empty carton in the trash and reached for the backpack propped on a cracked vinyl kitchen chair. "School? Remember that?"

"Think of it like a vacation! Just a couple days." One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "What could it hurt? I used to blow off a couple days of school all the time and it never made any difference."

Sam gnawed his lip. Seeing Duck again was tempting; Dean knew it would be.

"But - I've got exams next week. And I'm supposed to meet with the guidance counselor tomorrow," Sam said finally. "About those career aptitude test results."

"We'll be back by the weekend. Plenty of study time - no sweat. And that appointment? Skip it." Dean's eyebrows scrunched in disdain. "You wanna sit in some stuffy office with your hands tucked between your knees while some old broad tells you that you should become a librarian?" Dean put out a hand, stopped his brother from slinging the books over his shoulder. "We already have our jobs carved out for us – you know that. Our family business wasn't on that stupid test, but that's your career aptitude, Sammy."

"I don't think Dad would agree with you about the aptitude," Sam said, scowling.

And damn, Dean thought, if that just wasn't the whole problem in nutshell. Why couldn't Sam _enjoy_ hunting the way _he_ did? When their father was there, inevitably it became a battle of wills, Sam challenging John's decisions, John finding fault with Sam's actions. If he could get Sam on a hunt without their dad around, without the tension, Dean was sure Sam would relax into it. Hell, get the same high from it that Dean did. The Winchester family would finally become the well-oiled fighting machine John expected. Demanded. Together.

So he pulled out the big guns. Metaphorically speaking.

"C'mon Sam," he said. "It's Duck. Dude, you know him. When has he ever asked us for anything? Listen." He reached over to the answering machine on the counter; hit play.

"_John? It's Duck. I hope to God this finds you. Listen. I need … well, I need your help." _The deep voice on the other end was hoarse, desperate._ "I know I don't have any right to ask this. It's been almost 30 years since Quang Nam, and I swore I'd spend the rest of my life trying to pay you back. God knows, this is a piss-poor way to repay a debt like that. But – " _

Dean watched Sam's expression transform, his frustrations forgotten, his eyes growing wide and worried while the caller struggled to get out the next words. Sam had been 13 or 14 the last time they'd actually lived with Duck, about the same time Sam began to think his dad didn't know everything after all - and sometimes even dared to voice that opinion. Duck had been a safe haven in more ways than one back then, especially for Sam.

"_I know now what it's going to take, and I can't do it alone. You're the only man I know who can help me with this."_ There was a ragged sigh. _"Tell the boys.…" _A long stretch of silence followed. Then the message just cut off.

"But - what about Dad?"

_Yes! _Dean had him in his pocket; his little brother was gonna play hooky after all. "Dad doesn't want us. Doesn't want anyone around right now," Dean said. "You know that. We can leave him a note, just in case, but we'll back before he is."

"That's not what I meant."

_Oh. _Yeah, Sam had already decided that helping Duck was worth giving up his own plans. This reluctance was rooted somewhere else.

When Sam was five years old, he'd started asking Dean where Dad had gone, when he'd be back, was he okay? The fact that sometimes Dad came home more than a little worse for wear didn't help. Sammy had grown up a worrier, and that hadn't changed just because he and their dad started fighting all the time. If Dad was off, alone on a hunt - Sam imagined the worst. If Dad was gone, alone with a bottle - Sam imagined the worst.

Kid always did have too much imagination.

"He's indestructible, Sam. You know that," Dean said. Well, not that there hadn't been plenty of blood mopped up over the years. But John Winchester was a survivor. Dean wouldn't leave if he had the slightest doubt about that. Dad was okay. He'd promised long ago – the first time he'd left them on their own – that he would always be okay; would always come back.

And Dad always kept his promises.

Sam's mouth tightened and he set the backpack down and nodded. "Okay. Yeah. For Duck. I'll go."

Dean grabbed the keys to the Impala, unholy glee lighting up his face, and led the way out. Sammy was gonna have fun this time, he swore. Helping people; hunting down the supernatural and killing it. It was what being a Winchester was all about. It was a perfect plan.

-----------

A closed fist hammered on the heavy door and Duck O'Malley shut his journal, middle-aged joints creaking as he climbed to his feet, bad knee stiff. He pulled the cabin door open, flinched against the howling of the wind, looked up, and froze.

It wasn't John.

All his careful plans were whisked away like the broken pinecones and dry leaves that scattered across the warped porch step. Before he could react, it was too late – Sam was smiling broadly and crowding his personal space like he couldn't decide whether to shake his hand or wrap him in a manly hug. Dean shouldered past him toward the crackling fire inside, rubbing his hands together, and bitching about the cold.

Duck stared at the boys as they shrugged off their jackets and headed for the coffeepot on the ancient stove as if they lived there. Which they had, off and on, over the years. Ever since he'd moved to up north, his cabin had become a refuge, a place for the Winchester family to withdraw until they could get their bearings and move on. Debt collectors or eviction notices, overzealous agents of Child Protection Services - whatever made John pack up everything they owned and disappear into the night, Duck didn't need an explanation. He always had room for them until John could figure out where to settle next.

The thing of it was - it was their father who was supposed to be there this time. Without the boys.

"Where's John?" he asked, taking a steaming mug from Dean and settling into an old Naugahyde chair by the fireplace, keeping the dismay out of his voice as carefully as he blew across the surface of the black coffee.

The brothers sat too, straddling a pair of hard wooden chairs. They didn't answer right away. Just exchanged glances. A flash of emotion darted across Sam's face – annoyance? Concern? Whatever it had been, it was quickly erased. Something equally enigmatic flickered in Dean's eyes before it, too, was suppressed.

And then Duck knew exactly why John hadn't come.

He was like family – as much family as the Winchester clan had left. The boys were as close to sons as he would ever have. He knew they wouldn't lie to him. But Dean – he still couldn't talk about losing his mom without the words coming out raw, like they were dragged out over broken glass. And he wouldn't admit to any weakness in his dad, would never admit that John usually disappeared for a few days around the anniversary of Mary's death.

Dean didn't have to admit to anything though. Duck understood. He held up a hand. "I get it. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called him. I should have remembered." He stared into his mug.

But Duck needed John on this case. "Look," he said, setting down his coffee and standing. "I'm sorry you boys came all this way. But this isn't a job for you. And you probably knew I'd say that, or else you'd have called first."

Dean stood then too, looming over Duck - who, to be honest, was built like a pugnacious little Irishman. "Duck, look at us. We aren't scrawny kids any more. And you know I've been hunting with Dad since before I finished school. We can help."

Looking up at him, Duck realized it was true. Dean wasn't that wiry, freckle-faced adolescent he was remembering, a kid interested in nothing more than classic rock and tinkering with cars. When he swept away the haze of nostalgia, he found sharper mental snapshots of Dean as a young teenager, watching their backs on a hunt – stealthy, alert, and a crack shot.

The boy had carried that responsibility too young, but he'd grown into it – shoulders broad enough now to support his burdens, worry lines around his eyes revealing a new maturity underneath that cocky, devil-may-care façade. Dean was a hunter now. But - Duck couldn't ask him to do this.

And what about Sam?

When he'd opened the door Duck had been stunned at how tall Sam had grown. He wouldn't be wearing Dean's hand-me-downs ever again. But there was something in Sam's young face, eyes bright and challenging, hair decidedly unmilitary in length, that suggested Sam still clung to a certain innocence that Dean had shed long ago.

"Aren't you still in school?" Duck asked the younger brother, who hadn't moved and was still draped across the back of his chair, all gangly arms and legs.

Sam nodded, with a look that Duck read as both confident and conflicted. "Senior. But I go where he goes," he said, jerking his chin toward Dean. "I can miss a couple days and catch up easily enough." He straightened. "So - what is it? It's a full moon tomorrow night – is it werewolves? Dad always said you were the man to talk to if we needed to know anything about werewolf lore."

Duck sighed. He needed time to think. John had suffered enough, and Duck wouldn't risk adding the loss of his sons to the debt. But - maybe he could at least feed them, put them up for the night, and let them help with some of the tasks that would be safe.

Hell, it would be like old times.

And damn – but he'd missed having them around. "You're right, Sam. Since I retired a couple years ago, I guess I've been specializing in that." He tapped his leather bound journal. "Everything I've learned about werewolves – theories on origins, how to kill, how to cure, proven or unproven, is in here. You boys have any experience with werewolves, yourselves?"

Dean nodded, self-assured. "Yeah. When I was 18, the summer after we left here. We tracked a _loublin_ to a cemetery in Iowa. Killed and torched that sucker." There was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. Sam was staring at the floor, mouth drawn in a tight line, and Duck wondered about the story behind that.

"Loublin, huh? That's one of the more rare breeds. They feed on fresh corpses instead of the living. If you've run across loublin, you already know there's different kinds of werewolf." Duck picked up his journal and motioned them to follow him. "And then there's the whole full moon mythology. Some sub-species are tied to the lunar cycle. Some aren't."

The room he led them to had changed since the last time the Winchesters had stayed at the cabin. Now, a big scarred desk was the most prominent piece of furniture in the room, covered with dusty tomes. Loose papers were tacked haphazardly to three of the walls.

"Duck?" Sam gestured at the corner, an incredulous look on his face. An afghan in variegated hues of camouflage green was draped across the top of a rocking chair. On the floor beside it was a wicker basket filled with balls of yarn, a pair of knitting needles embedded in one.

Duck shrugged. "Man's gotta keep busy, you know. I've got so many pairs of socks now I hardly ever have to do laundry."

Dean snorted, and stepped closer to examine the maps on the wall. Sam stood at his shoulder; his attention turned to the sketches of medieval woodcuts, showing villagers fleeing in terror from unnatural creatures.

After a moment they pivoted to see the rest of the room. A typical file cabinet, some bookcases, and there, behind them, stood pair of bunk beds, stripped down and long disused. Dean and Sam snuck glances at each other and then couldn't hold back the broad grins.

"You boys aren't going to fight over the top bunk again, are you?" Duck shook his head. "I never did understand why you both wanted it."

"You never had a ladder for it. We liked to climb." Sam walked up to the bunk beds; peered down over the top mattress. "I remember it being a lot higher though."

"I bet it seemed plenty high enough that morning the alarm went off for school and you fell off the top bunk," Dean snickered.

Sam groaned. "It wasn't the floor that hurt; it was landing on your damn boots."

"Boys…!" The syllable came out on an exasperated sigh. It really was like old times. Duck steered them back to the maps and the lesson at hand. "I think you wanted to know about werewolves, right?"

They nodded, back to business.

"The loublin originated in Romania," Duck began. "They're active during full moons. But there are many more breeds of werewolf - each different. For example, the _loup garou _came this way from France." Duck slid his finger from Europe across the ocean to Quebec, and down along the routes that French Canadian fur trappers left descendents. "The loup garou aren't affected by the lunar cycle," he added. "They take the form of a wolf for 101 consecutive nights after being bitten."

"So - what are we hunting here?" Dean asked. He wasn't interested in a zoology lesson. He wanted intel on their target.

Duck turned back from the maps on the wall to face them. "Blue Moon werewolves."

"Blue Moon?" Dean laughed. "What are they? Werewolf Elvis impersonators?"

Sam sniggered.

Even Duck started to smile. He'd almost forgotten what it was like having Dean's smart mouth around. Then he remembered what they were up against, and he looked pained. "No. These victims transform into actual wolves. Only larger and even more vicious." His face darkened, and his hands balled into fists, until he realized it and uncurled his fingers, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. "It lasts just a few hours each night, spanning the night before and after the full moon at its peak. But this breed has a unique trait or two. For starters, they don't turn every month. Just once in a blue moon."

Sam's expression registered interest at Duck's choice of the word 'victim', but before he could react, Dean was saying "And a blue moon is – whenever there are two full moons in the same month?"

Duck nodded. "I was tracking what I thought was your common garden variety werewolf back in September of '93. In the Upper Peninsula. This attack occurred at a campground – not a lot of tourists left at the end of September. Just four families had booked RV sites. On the first night of the full moon, a toddler vanished. They found her …" Duck grimaced at the memory, "remains in the morning. Animal attack, the authorities said. The campground shut down after that; all four families left. I tracked them down. Put word out in the hunter community to watch them at the next full moon – to let me know where the next killing occurred. But the next full moon – there weren't any attacks near any of those families."

He perched on the edge of his desk and rubbed one knee. "Nothing for three years," he went on. "And then in July of '96 – the summer just before you boys moved in here – it happened again. At Cedar Breaks, out in Utah, and it turned out one of those four families was vacationing there. The Harper family. I couldn't make it out there before the end of the full moon, but that's when I started looking into lore about werewolves that only turn every two to three years."

"Once in a blue moon."

"Right." Duck gestured at a wobbly stack of Farmers' Almanacs balanced precariously on the floor. "I put together a list of all the full moons over the last twenty-five years. Cross-referenced it at the library with microfiche newspaper reports of animal attacks in the general vicinity of the Harper clan."

"You found a pattern."

"I found a pattern," Duck echoed. "The first attack I found was in Indiana, in 1985. Five-year-old Melanie Harper was killed and her father David was bitten, but survived. Since then more attacks in their vicinity – the next in '88 and again in '90, '93, '96 … always on a month with two full moons, and always on the second one."

"Blue Moon werewolves," Dean repeated, still shaking his head at the mental picture of furry creatures in white sequined jumpsuits, playing guitar. "So – you found the pattern after the attack in '96. What happened in '98 or '99?"

"Both husband and wife were affected by then. David and Marie Harper. I killed Marie in March of '99, in Minnesota."

"But David?"

"Was too strong; too fast. He got away."

"That was two and a half years ago. He's due to turn again. That's why you called Dad."

"Not exactly." Duck turned away, unable to look the boys in the eye. Outside the window, the edge of the woods loomed menacingly closer than he remembered. "I called your Dad," he admitted with a shuddering sigh, "because I think now Harper may be hunting me. I think he's headed here."

There was no stunned silence, no hesitation. "Let us help." The words came in tandem chorus from both brothers.

Duck stood still, studying the young men in front of him – strong, eager, trained, unafraid. Finally, he nodded, though the conflict was still etched in his face. "Need a hot meal in us before we hit the woods for a little scouting party," he said. "Bring in your gear while I heat us up some lunch. You boys still like my venison goulash, right?" Duck headed for the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Sam winced. "Damn. That stuff always makes me sneeze."

"It's the paprika," Dean said, laughing, loose-limbed and relaxed now that his plan was coming together. "Duck's always been a little heavy-handed with the spices."

Sam poked Dean. "And you always pick out the green peppers."

"What can I say? They're green. If God had intended man to eat green stuff, he wouldn't have made mold green."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable," he said. "C'mon. Let's get our stuff."

They didn't have much to bring in. They dumped their kits on the beds and Dean frowned when he saw Sam plop his heavy AP Calculus book on the bunk too.

"Dude! You didn't!"

"I need to keep up, Dean."

"Then why didn't you stay home?"

Sam just gave him a belligerent stare. There was no way he could admit to Dean the fear that gnawed at his gut every time their dad left. Didn't matter if it was for a hunt or on the rare bender. Each time, there was a cold clammy fear deep inside that maybe this time Dad wouldn't come back. Dean never seemed worried about it. And he'd be damned if he let Dean know he was. Sometimes it was all Sam could do to try to mask that fear as resentment. He'd rather Dean thought he was a sullen teenager than a scared little boy.

The idea of Dean leaving him too, though - of going off on a hunt while Sam sat safely in class … that thought scraped him raw and hollow inside. What if something happened to Dean?

The only way he could deal with that was to ditch school and come along.

"I can cut a day or two of school and catch up in everything else," he explained, "but this is more than just reading and memorizing." He drummed his fingers on the thick math book. "It's not so easy."

Dean sighed. "Sammy, why even take AP classes? They aren't going to help on a hunt."

"I just –" Sam floundered for an excuse Dean would understand. He knew college wasn't an option. That appointment with the school's guidance counselor? He didn't really mind missing that. What was the point really? They couldn't afford college. And even with the possibility of financial aid, he knew his father would never agree. Dad was just waiting for him to finish school and finally start pulling his weight, like Dean did.

He had responsibilities, not choices.

But schools kept putting him in the gifted track, and he'd be damned if he'd back down from that challenge either. Truth be told, he even liked the courses. But he could never admit that to Dean. That was just an invitation for geek-ribbing on a massive scale.

Dean wasn't waiting for an answer anyway. He was rummaging in the closet where he remembered linens were stored, and his boot connected with a plastic crate on the floor. "Hey, what's this?" Dumping a pile of plaid wool blankets on the top bunk, he pulled out the crate and sank down to sit on the bottom bunk. The mattress gave as Sam settled beside him.

At first glance, it was a pile of – well, junk really. At the top there were old comic books, covers creased, and a manila envelope stuffed with old baseball cards. Dean reached deeper and picked up a Rubik's cube, and Sam felt the years sifting away like loose dirt swept aside to reveal skeletal remains.

Once they'd stayed with Duck for a whole school year, when Dad had fractured his pelvis getting thrown against a granite tombstone. Dean had called the nearest hunter still on speaking terms with John. It wasn't a long list.

Duck O'Malley had gone back to school after his tour in 'Nam and become an ER nurse, bucking the stereotype with his gray crew cut and ropy muscles and steely blue eyes. So when the boys asked for help, Duck had taken charge, getting John transferred to Mercy Hospital where he worked. The boys had stayed at the cabin with Duck and gone to school in town. When John was released from the hospital, but still needed a few more months of bed rest and rehab, Duck put him in his own room and slept on the couch. They'd stayed till summer, even after John was up and around again.

It had meant a lot to Sam to feel like he had roots then. Especially at 13. Sitting on the familiar bunk now, he wasn't sure he'd ever really thought about the fact that his dad had tried to give him that. Without his sons, he'd have been on the road constantly. Pastor Jim had even suggested John home-school the boys if he was so reluctant to settle down. He could have, too; Sam had no doubts he could have gotten an education from books alone, without any help from a teacher. But he'd wanted classmates. Normal.

He didn't think that Dad 'got' that, but looking back now, he realized the truth. Whenever they stayed in one place, set down roots for a semester or a year, John Winchester was putting his sons first.

Sam palmed a deflated soccer ball to lift it out of the crate and felt his heart hammer with mixed emotions. Then his eyes lit up as he found a pile of favorite dog-eared paperbacks underneath. He and Duck had shared a passion for reading that Dad and Dean never understood.

He couldn't believe Duck had kept all this stuff. The sentimental old coot. He cast a glance at Dean, who was rubbing a thumb pensively along the edge of a plastic-sleeved Jim Abbott rookie card.

"Mint condition?" Sam grinned. "Are we rich?"

"Oh yeah. Worth eight bucks, at least!" Dean answered, his voice quiet. "Guess Dad can retire now."

"Right." Sam reluctantly put the books back. "Hey, Dean? Do you know what Duck meant on the phone, about owing Dad a debt?"

Dean shook his head. "They were both in 'Nam. But Duck was an Army medic and Dad was in the Corps, so I don't know if they saw any action together. You know they won't talk about it."

Sam shoved the crate back in the closet and nodded. Didn't matter. Over the years, debt or not, the man had become a friend. For the Winchesters, that was something in short supply.

Duck came in, waving an apron to dispel the smoke that followed him out of the kitchen. "You boys remember where everything is?" Sotto voce, he embarked on the chorus to a song he had mangled the first time Dean played it and every time since –

"_Don't go around tonight,  
Well, it's bound to take your life,  
There's a bathroom on the right…"_

"He hasn't changed a bit since we last saw him," Dean said, rolling his eyes, as Duck wandered off again. "But I don't think he can say the same about us."

"He didn't have that limp the last time we were here," Sam pointed out, heading toward the door.

"I guess he didn't knit back then either. But he always was a big softie."

"Just because he liked research more than killing doesn't make him soft, Dean."

"And you're just like him, Sammy," Dean smirked. "You gonna learn to knit too?"

"Shut up!" Sam clocked him with a ball of khaki-colored yarn.

-----------

After lunch Duck led the brothers on a scouting foray deep into the woods behind the cabin. As the trees closed in around them, he felt John's specter over his shoulder, turning the excursion into another training exercise. He suspected Dean and Sam felt it too. They followed, silent as the fog.

He'd practically watched those boys grow up. He remembered the first time John had brought the boys to the cabin for a few days, when Child Protective Services had gotten a little too curious. John took Dean out back to shoot at bottles, and damned if the little guy couldn't knock an Old Milwaukee Beer off a fence at 6 or 7 years old. Duck never saw anyone take to something so natural. Never saw John so proud either.

Duck's task that afternoon had been to keep Sammy occupied safely indoors, because the 3-year-old always wanted to be wherever Dean was, doing whatever his big brother was doing. Duck offered to read to Sam from an Early Reader that Dean had in his backpack, and Sam had happily crawled into his lap and opened the book. Then he began reading it aloud to his astonished babysitter.

Later, Duck asked John if he'd taught Sammy, but the boy's father didn't have a clue. They'd gone looking for Dean; found the two kids curled up together over a comic book.

"Dean, did you teach Sammy to read?" John had demanded.

"We didn't mean to," Dean had answered plaintively, not sure who was in more trouble. "It was a accident!"

Dean had simply been reading aloud, fingers tracing the words, sounding them out, and Sammy, glued to his side, absorbed it all. Those were good times, Duck reflected. He'd tried not to look forward to their visits, because chances were, it meant the Winchester family was in trouble. But he had to admit, he'd missed them.

As the boys got older, John needed him less. Didn't have social service agencies breathing down his neck any more. Dean finished school and found work wherever John moved them, so they weren't on the run from debt collectors lately either.

It had been years since he'd helped John put the boys through their paces here in the woods. But it was all coming back to him now.

"Sam asked why I'd started to specialize in werewolves," he said, one hand on the bark of a tree for balance as he navigated down a steep slope. "But it's complicated." He paused, thinking how John would respond to such a question. John tended toward terse answers, not explanations. Maybe that was his military background. But maybe it was because he knew how bright his boys were and wanted them to work at finding the answers, and the reasons behind them. "Why werewolves, and not zombies or poltergeists or banshees?" Duck continued. "Well, what's one thing that all known werewolf breeds have in common?"

"Transmogrification," Dean piped up right away. "Shape shifting."

Duck stumbled in his haste to turn around and stare.

"What?" Dean's expression was pure innocence. "I read Calvin and Hobbes."

Sam snorted, and Duck was reminded that while Dean liked to play dumb, he was anything but. His act might fool strangers, but he couldn't fool John or Sam. Or Duck.

Sam took his turn to expound on the answer. "Transmogrification," he repeated, elbowing Dean, "and more specifically, lycanthropy. Unlike, say, the Slavic _kresniki,_ or the Navajo skin walkers that can choose different animal skins, werewolves always take the form, or nature, of a wolf."

Dean suddenly shot out an arm to stop Duck from moving on. Wordlessly, he gestured to the brush along the stream bank a few feet from where they stood, and then picked up a fallen limb to poke away the natural cover. No longer hidden, they saw a steel-jawed trap, anchored by a heavy chain.

Duck frowned. "Looks like there's trappers in these woods again." He looked around, saw nothing but trees. "I could never bring myself to use traps, though I considered it. I've been working on a plan to capture a werewolf alive, see if the legends on how to cure one have any basis in fact."

"Cure one? Are you kidding?" Dean's eyes flashed. Monsters are monsters. If it's supernatural, you kill it. Rule Number One in the John Winchester playbook.

"I know. I know." Duck held up a hand, asking for a chance to explain. "I'm not saying you shouldn't hunt them. The world is safer without them. But for me, well, this is all tied into why I served as a medic in 'Nam."

He took a deep breath, held it. Released it with a heavy sigh. "It was a war over there, no matter what some folks call it. It was a war, and we had enemies who'd stop at nothing to kill us. It was kill them, or be killed. Or worse, watch your buddy die. Your daddy understood that. That's what makes him so good at what he does. But me?" Duck studied his cold-reddened fingers, and then thrust his hands in his pockets. "Even though I knew it was a war, I couldn't help seeing the faces above the uniforms. Teenagers and young women and old men - people who just believed in a cause. They were just trying to protect their neighbors and their families and friends." Duck's voice caught and he faltered for a moment.

Then he collected himself and continued. "So – I became a medic," he explained. "Someone has to do the killing. I just didn't want it to be me. Not if I can try to save lives, instead. You asked me why I decided to specialize in werewolves. Well, same thinking. Because in a way, you can think of werewolves as victims too. And of all the things we've hunted over the years, your father and I and other hunters like us, these are only ones that maybe I can try to save instead of destroy."

"But, can you?" Sam asked. "Does the folklore say there's a cure?"

"I've heard of one," Duck said. "If you treat someone who's been bitten, before the next moonrise. But after the poison's taken hold – after they've turned?" He shook his head. "I've been tracking down rumors, but I haven't seen proof. Not yet anyway."

He pushed off again, away from the stream and deeper into the woods. "There's a legend that says recognizing a loup garou, calling it by name, will make it turn human again. Some say you need iron and the blood of the werewolf to complete the charm." He was breathing harder as they were moving uphill now. "I tried that whole formula over in Minnesota. Set a trap with iron nails. Caught Marie Harper in it, and I followed her bloody paw prints till I had her cornered. I knew who she was; called her by name." Duck leaned over, rubbed his knee. "But I guess the spell was specific to loup garou. It didn't work on her. Had to put her down."

"Silver bullet?" Dean asked.

Duck nodded. "Yeah. They say iron rounds to the heart'll kill 'em too."

An owl hooted over head, and Duck glanced up. Above them, the moon was beginning to rise, low on the horizon - a plump jack-o-lantern, bright yellow-orange as it floated lazily up the sky. But there was nothing so pleasant or cheery in Duck's tone. "We need to turn back. Now," Duck urged, moving faster than the boys would have imagined with his gimpy leg. They followed, alert and grimly silent.

Page 18 of 18


	2. Chapter 2

**Blue Moon Rising, Part 2 of 4 **

Dinner was leftover stew or cereal.

"Lucky Charms?" Sam asked, incredulous, as Duck pulled down a box.

"You boys turned me onto a good thing when you were livin' here. Got a taste for it now, I guess," Duck answered, his manner pre-occupied.

Sam declined to point out that he'd outgrown that taste. He found a jar of peanut butter in the kitchen cabinet, a loaf of bread and some apples, and made a meal out of that, while Dean heated up leftover goulash for himself and Duck. Sam sneezed anyway. Dean plucked out the green peppers.

"What's the plan tonight?" Dean asked, scraping his spoon on the bottom of the bowl.

"Full moon peaks tomorrow," Duck said. "I need you boys to go into town tonight. Dean, see what silver you can get your hands on; iron too. There's a pawnshop on Main that might have what we need. Tomorrow we'll melt it down, make more bullets." He shifted to drag his wallet out of his back pocket and handed Dean a wad of cash.

Duck turned to Sam. "I haven't given up on trying to reverse the spell on these werewolves. The ritual I described didn't work, but I've been investigating other theories." He reached for his journal; thumbed through it till he came to the notation he was looking for. "The library in town has internet access. Sam, I want you to see what you can find out about an exorcism performed by a Bishop McKenna in the early 1980's. The New England Society for Psychic Research was involved. The incantation will be in Latin - I'll need your help with that."

"Sure, okay…" Sam looked puzzled. "What will you be doing?"

"There's some primitive campsites and backcountry trails where the creek widens, a few miles further south," Duck said. "I want to scout that area; see if I can find any trace of Harper. Any signs to tell whether he's alone or not. Wolves are pack animals – Harper might've turned others into werewolves that I don't know about."

"By yourself?" Dean frowned. The words were on the tip of his tongue to say 'I'll come with you. Sam can run the errands in town.' But he stopped himself. Didn't he want this hunt to be one where Sam was fully involved in everything that gave Dean such a rush? He should be pressing Duck to take them both with him now, or to wait until they could all go.

Sam opened his mouth to say something too, but before he could, Duck waved him off. "I'll be fine. Tonight I'll be twelve feet up, in a tree blind. Perfectly safe, out of harm's way if I do see anything. Tonight's just for intel gathering – picket duty, try to determine the size and strength of the opposing force. Not to engage the enemy." He slapped his hands on the table and stood. "I'll probably be out till sunrise – it's safer not to travel through the woods just before dawn. I'll meet you back here in the morning to come up with our plan of attack."

With that, Duck grabbed his jacket and his gun and strode out, while the Winchester boys stared blankly after him.

-----------

The Impala sputtered to a stop on the gravel drive just before 9 p.m. Dean shut off the ignition but left the headlights on; twin beacons that lit a single path across the yard and into the woods behind the cabin.

"You know," he said, "I've got a hunch Duck doesn't have any intention of letting us hunt with him tomorrow."

"I know." Sam shifted in the seat, as though the inactivity chafed. "He was counting on Dad being here. You think he's worried that Dad'll be pissed?"

Dad would be furious, Dean had to admit. Or would he?

This wasn't the first time they'd started a hunt on their own. Dad had sent them off to coordinates before, to start investigating while he wrapped up a distant case. So far, he'd always joined up with them before anything supernatural reared its ugly head. That wouldn't always be the case, Dean thought.

Dad had been training them for this. All their lives.

The headlights cast a hazy spotlight across Duck's backyard, and Dean blinked as shadows of his childhood danced briefly before his eyes. Nothing had changed. The picnic table was still there. And a sandbox, for heaven's sake. Sammy had built pyramids there long ago, and a rampaging mummy (a clothespin Duck had wrapped in medical adhesive tape) had ruthlessly attacked Dean's plastic army figures. All appeared lost, until Dean finally had to call in artillery on his own position. Then a water balloon sailed in – Dad was always deadly accurate with any weapon – and the pyramids were destroyed. The mummy washed away, trailing soggy tape, but the army guys, being plastic, were unharmed and survived to fight another day.

The undead defeated. Dad to the rescue again.

One day soon, though, Dean knew he and Sam would be on their own when the shit hit the fan.

"You wanna go out there tonight, don't you, Dean?" Sam exhaled slowly, fanning his fingers over his knees, restless.

The prospect of a hunt, just him and Sam out there alone together and answering to no one, made Dean's heart start to race. He _wanted_ to do this. Hell, this was his goddamned plan.

But all that adrenaline ran smack into the brick wall of 18 years of a deeply ingrained compulsion to keep his little brother safe.

His hands felt cold; his breathing sped up. Suddenly he wasn't sure what he wanted.

Or what Sam wanted. Was Sam itching for the hunt; longing for the chance to prove himself?

"That's what we came for," Sam said suddenly.

Dean jerked. He hadn't been thinking out loud. Sam must have been having his own internal debate. "What is?" he asked.

"Duck's always shared everything he has with us," Sam said quietly. "Never asked for anything in return. Until now. We came because he needs our help." And with that, Sam opened the car door and led the way resolutely into the night.

And just maybe, Dean thought, following his brother into the woods, this really wasn't what he'd planned at all. Maybe this wasn't entirely about getting Sam to embrace the hunt. Maybe it was just as much a test of his own ability to take the lead on a case – just him and Sam - and keep them safe.

This wasn't just a training exercise any more. It wasn't a game.

This was something he couldn't afford to lose.

It was nearing midnight and the two brothers huddled together in a shallow dugout – really little more than a natural depression in the earth, where they could sit propped up with a little back support, some pine boughs strewn under and across their legs for warmth. It was Dean's turn to keep watch, mostly monitoring the creek below, occasionally turning his gaze into the dark woods at their backs when he heard the hoot of an owl, or the rustle of some nocturnal animal foraging for food.

Satisfied that all was quiet, Dean turned toward his should-have-been-sleeping brother. Lanky legs were tucked so that Sam's knees were nearly up to his chin, long arms wrapped around his shins, and his head was tilted back, wide-eyed as he studied the sky. In the moonlight Dean could see the hollows in his brother's cheeks. He was too thin, Dean thought. That freakish growth spurt hadn't ended yet and it seemed like Sam was always hungry.

Dean blamed himself a little. He'd thought that when he finished school and started taking jobs at the nearest garage, there'd be more money for groceries and warm clothes and the bill collectors. But John looked at Dean's paychecks as his chance to focus even more on hunting instead of bread-winning. He was gone almost as much as he was around now, and it had fallen to Dean to keep the cupboards from getting bare.

Credit card fraud wasn't as practical when you were trying to stay put for a few months. So whenever Sammy outgrew yet another pair of shoes, which seemed to be every few months lately - well, it meant sometimes they had to make do with more dinners of ramen noodles.

Dean shivered and put a lid on that train of thought. "Look, there, to the left of the moon," he said. "That's my favorite constellation."

"The Pleiades?" Sam turned toward him, half genuinely curious and half suspicious. "Why?"

"Also called the Seven Sisters," Dean said, with a wolfish grin. "They're hot."

Sam groaned and shook his head, but he was smiling.

Dean stretched and settled back with a contented grin, tucking his freezing hands under his arms to warm them up. He was remembering other nights, easier times, when he and Sam used to lie awake, exchanging whispers and secrets in the dark. When Sam was full of inquisitiveness and awe, and thought his big brother knew the answer to everything.

Sam's voice carried back to him softly in the hush of the cold, still air. "You know, the Aztecs and Mayans – even the ancient Persians – held ceremonies this time of year when the Pleiades were directly overhead like this. It was a time to honor their dead."

Dean's trip down memory lane suddenly went dark, crackled and spun away, like cinders and ash over a campfire. Those childhood days were dead and gone. Dad hadn't changed. He hadn't changed. But Sammy? He was different now. Staring up at the stars, Dean couldn't help but face it.

Dean knew he was smart too, no matter what the grades on his report card said. He never cared about school, but he always figured he could learn anything he needed to know, as long as he could touch it, see it, hear it, and use it. Dad was the same way.

Sam, though? Sam inhaled knowledge through words, books – exploring facts and ideas with his imagination rather than his senses.

Dean liked astronomy – because it was useful in the field. When Sam looked at constellations, he was thinking about how cultures honor or mourn their dead.

Their dad didn't get how Sam's mind worked. It was too speculative, too questioning. It wasn't conducive to taking orders and accomplishing the mission without challenge.

The whole purpose of this trip had been to figure out how to fit Sam into their hunting life, and right now, Dean wished he had the answer.

What Sam was thinking but didn't say is that in Celtic practice, when the Pleiades were overhead at midnight, it was Samhain - a time when the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead grows thinnest, when the dead draw close to the living, and the gates between the worlds are opened.

It was a time of year when John Winchester looked through that veil into his own dark memories and found pain so blinding that he sought refuge in a bottle.

Sam hugged his knees. He wasn't stupid – he had an idea why Dean wanted him along. He knew he got pissy when their father drank, and Dean must have wanted him out of the way when Dad finally staggered home.

What Sam didn't understand is why that pent-up worry and concern somehow always translated into anger, and made him act like a jerk once his father returned safe.

"Dude." Dean's voice interrupted his thoughts. "You grasp the concept of taking turns keeping watch? You sleep now. I watch. Remember?"

"Not tired. You wanna go ahead and catch some shut-eye?"

Dean shook his head, shivering. "I can't sit here any longer or my ass will freeze," he said. "If you're awake anyway, I'm gonna go patrol."

"Patrol?"

"Work my way downstream. Maybe meet up with Duck for a sit rep. You stay put. Just lay low, keep alert, and I'll be back." He could do this, Dean told himself. He could treat Sam like an equal partner on a hunt. Trust him on his own to stay safe. And if Dean felt an urge to look around, make sure the area was secure, well, that was only reasonable. Wasn't it?

Or was it just because he'd never been the senior hunter on the scene before? With no one around to give orders, he was restless. Jumpy.

He scrambled out of their foxhole as nimbly as half-frozen limbs would allow, and took a moment to rubs his arms and stomp his feet to get the circulation primed. "I'll follow the tree line south and look for tracks by the stream. Then cut into the woods on the way back and check out some of those hunting blinds, see if any of them are occupied."

"You sure that's safe?" Sam's fingers flexed around the handle of his gun. His Taurus 9mm held the iron rounds. They'd rummaged their trunk, found only four silver bullets; and those had been molded to fit Dean's .45 caliber Colt.

Dean glanced at Sam's weapon. "Here, swap guns," he said suddenly, holding his own out.

"What?"

"Take mine," Dean explained, not really an explanation at all.

But Sam got it. "Dude – keep your silver bullets," he said. "You're the one going looking for trouble. Besides, I'm used to this one. I'm more accurate with it and it's got a better night sight."

They'd done enough target practice together that Dean knew it was true. And Duck had said iron rounds were supposed to work just as well. "Okay," he conceded, reluctantly. "Just don't shoot _me_ by mistake when I get back." Bending down, he swatted the back of Sam's head before striding off into the shadows.

Moving was good. He was thawing out, feeling more awake. The hardest thing about hunting, for him, was always the sitting and waiting. Or maybe the hours in the library. When Sam finished school in a few months, he could take over the research. The not-so-little freak actually _liked_ it. Either way, sitting in a stakeout or in a library carrel, it was sitting still, and Dean was glad to not be doing that now.

The woods thinned out within a few feet of the water on either side. Dean left his flashlight in his jacket pocket, but kept the gun in his hand, pointed down. The moon cast an eerie silver glow that lit his path, and he could make out footprints in the mucky soil leading up to the creek. Deer, raccoon, muskrat … but nothing resembling the clawed four-toed paw marks that would suggest that a wolf, of any size, had lingered there.

It was quiet. The temperature was still dropping. The wind had disappeared – there was no air current to stir the skeletal tree branches – or to carry his scent to a predator.

He moved downstream stealthily – eyes sweeping the ground between the water and the woods for signs of tracks or scat, and careful of his own footing, wary that he make no sound. The moon continued its implacably slow arc toward the horizon as Dean followed the flow of the current deeper into the forest.

A sudden blur streaked low across the sky and his head jerked up in time to see another follow.

Bats.

His breath puffed out in a little rueful chuckle as he paused, still as a bird dog on point, waiting for his heart rate to slow again. He looked across the stream and wondered where Duck had set up his tree blind. A werewolf couldn't stalk you; sneak up on you when you were overhead. On the ground though…

Maybe it was time to turn back. Make sure Sammy hadn't dozed off.

He was shifting his weight back and forth, deciding which way to go, when a scream shredded the air around him, a piercing, rending shriek like a train's brakes failing and metal tearing and buckling in some horrifying collision.

Sam couldn't possibly make a sound like that. He couldn't.

Dean took off sprinting back the way he came.

The cry was cut off before Dean could get a fix on it, other than that it had come from behind him. His legs churned, muscles burning, an innate sense of balance keeping him moving forward at top speed while tree roots laid bare by erosion threatened to send him sprawling.

Suddenly he heard shots fired. Two rapid-fire bursts. Three more. And silence. Then all Dean could hear was his own heart hammering in his chest, louder even than his feet pounding the turf.

He rounded the bend of the stream and saw a dark shadow in the distance, emerging from the woods, dragging something toward the water. He was still too far away for an accurate kill shot, and he knew he shouldn't risk wasting one of his silver bullets.

But he skidded to a stop anyway, instinct prevailing over caution, and positioned his feet in the boxer's stance his dad had taught him, left leg slightly forward, shoulders following, 'nose over toes'. High hand grasp. Hard grip. He sighted and rolled the trigger.

The creature jerked with the impact and dropped what it had held locked in his jaws. In a second the beast had disappeared back into the trees. Its prize stirred, and Dean could see that it was a small figure in a maroon parka; the werewolf had been dragging it by the bunched-up hood at the scruff of the neck. The child scrambled to hands and knees and up to a stand, and staggered away in a panicked straight line, right into the stream.

The wolf howled. And took a step back toward the open, eyes on its prey.

Dean fired again – and missed as it shrank back. Too far. Damn it, he knew he was too far away. He broke into a run again; both hands still on the gun, not taking his eyes off the shadows where the werewolf lurked.

He heard a splash as the boy tripped and fell. Dean glanced away from the tree line to find the kid, and saw a dark lump lying motionless in the water. Face down. Dead man's float, he thought wildly.

And then all hell broke loose. Sam burst out into the open, so fast Dean didn't see where he had come from, long legs covering the open ground in seconds. He was unarmed, pale hands and face stark in the moonlight as he charged into the stream, kicking up a spray. The water only came up to his knees when he reached the boy. Sam was turning him onto his back and darting a look over his shoulder when a deep growl rumbled behind him.

The wolf reacted to the potential loss of his meal – he lunged out of the woods. Dean fired again while on the run, but the animal was moving too fast, and the bullet just clipped its left haunch, making it howl with rage.

Sam only had time to scoop the boy to his chest and turn his back on the beast when it hit him and drove them down into the water.

One bullet left. Have to get closer. One left. Have to get closer. Dean's thoughts echoed tersely, like a refrain from the Confiteor - mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa - matching the beat of his running footsteps and then –

- he was falling, twisting; felt a ligament in his ankle snap as he hit the ground hard, and the sheer agony in his left leg drowned out any sound of struggle just ahead of him. He tried to move, get to Sam, but his foot was trapped by something. He spared a look.

His foot was caught in one of the traps. Its steel teeth were embedded in his leg just above the top of his boot.

Dark storm clouds billowed across his vision, blinding him, but he fought them back; blinked and willed them away so he could see. He rolled onto his belly, the trap moving with him, dragging the heavy anchor chain. He used the ground to steady his trembling arms, gripped the ivory-plated handle of the gun so tightly his hand hurt, and stared down the front sight.

They were just dark blurs thrashing in the stream. If he trusted his eyesight, Dean would have tried for a headshot, but the beast's head was too much of a moving target, jerking back and forth, jaws snapping. He aimed instead at the lean furry back, curled his index finger around the trigger, and in between an inhale and an exhale, he fired the last silver bullet. His vision clouded again, greasy black splotches careening against each other like bumper cars, making him feel nauseated and light-headed.

There were no more howls or snarls. No screams or cries. He rubbed his eyes, frantic to see, and heard what sounded like a Clydesdale stomping through a wading pool.

Then it was quiet.

He was struggling to rise when a small branch snapped. Dean rolled onto his side and looked up and Sam was there, standing above him, so tall he blocked out the moon. He had a little boy wrapped around his chest, clinging like a wet monkey, and they both looked damp and pale and shocked.

"The wolf? Is it dead?" Dean demanded, straining to see the creek.

Sam nodded mutely, shifted the boy in his arms, and stared down at Dean's ankle. "Shit, Dean," he croaked. "That looks bad."

Dean curled into a sitting position and followed the direction of Sam's gaze. "I'm okay," he said though gritted teeth. "But get it offa me!"

Sam nodded, moved gingerly to set the boy down, and told him 'Stay!' as if he were a puppy. Then Sam crouched down on his heels to examine the apparatus. He winced as he took in the jagged teeth, ran his fingers over the coiled springs, and grimaced again as he tried to release the levers on either side with his hands.

At first nothing happened; then Dean felt the teeth begin to loosen their grip. Tendons popped in Sam's neck, the strain evident in his clenched jaw, and his arms began to tremble with the effort, but the steel trap wouldn't budge any further. With a soft cry, his left hand slipped off the lever and the shark-like teeth snapped tight again until they hit bone.

"Christ!" Dean writhed on the ground a moment before falling limply back, trying desperately to summon the strength to endure that again.

Sam's face was white. Dean could practically see the thought process flit across Sam's face as he forced himself to set panic and guilt aside and think analytically.

"I've got an idea. Let's get you up," Sam said, taking Dean's left forearm in his right hand. When Dean clutched his arm in return, he pulled and Dean came wobbling up to stand with all his weight on his good leg. The base of the trap rested flat against the ground again, and Sam stepped on the levers with both feet. That relaxed the pressure enough that the jaws loosened, wider than before, although they didn't spring completely open. Dean muttered a litany of curses as he pried them farther apart and eased his foot carefully out. Then he let himself topple back to the ground, landing hard on one hip, and Sam stepped back off the levers and jumped at the sound as the steel frame snapped shut.

Dean looked at Sam towering over him, wet and shuddering with the cold, as the adrenaline leeched away. "Dean," Sam started to say, "you should have…." He waved a hand helplessly.

"Should've what, Sammy?" Dean's voice was rough with pain. "Slowed down, so I could watch where I was going? Taken a longer route, away from the trap lines? There wasn't time!" He turned to look back at the stream. A body lay partially submerged, water lapping gently over the back of a shoulder, marble white in the moonlight. No fur.

"We did it," he said, flatly. Where was that endorphin high he'd reveled in with every kill since his first, at 16? "We nailed Harper."

"If it _is_ Harper," Sam said softly. "Duck said there could be others. He could be traveling with a pack."

"So what? A werewolf's a werewolf, Sammy. And the only good werewolf is a dead werewolf."

"It could be anybody," Sam went on. "In the morning, somewhere, folks'll wonder why no one opened the hardware store, or delivered the mail. Maybe some kid will wonder why his dad never came home from a business trip…."

His voice broke off, and Dean didn't need to ask what he was thinking. He was thinking about Dad too. How many times he hadn't made it back when he'd said to expect him. The nights they'd lain awake, Sammy pale and scared and wondering what would happen to them if Dad never came back, Dean trying to convince him that would never happen.

"We've got a kid right here; one we still need to get to safety," Dean said, resolutely pulling them both back to the present. Wincing, he let Sam haul him to his feet again, and then he crouched down to eye-level with the little boy they had rescued. He saw a skinny little urchin about seven years old, with a scrape on his forehead, straw-colored hair and vacant eyes.

"Kid? You okay? Can you tell me your name?"

There was no response.

"I don't think there's anyone home here," he told Sam.

"He's probably in shock."

Dean pocketed his empty gun and hastily patted the boy down. Nothing made the child cry out in pain. "Seems okay," he said. He straightened, and held out his hand to his brother. "I'm out of ammo." Of the two, he was the better shot. If only one of them could go armed, Dean was determined it would be him.

Sam reached around to the small of his back, where he had tucked his semi-automatic, and drew it out to hand over. "Iron rounds didn't even make it flinch," he warned. "Can you walk?"

Dean took a tentative step and choked off a curse, as the strained ankle and lacerated muscle wouldn't hold his weight.

"I've got you." Sam ducked under Dean's left arm, and wrapped his own right arm around Dean's waist to support him. When he straightened Dean had to reach up; settled for clutching Sam's collar when he couldn't drape his arm across his taller brother's shoulder. Sam staggered a little and took a step sideways, trying to get his balance on the uneven terrain with his brother's weight pulling on one side. With their shuffle-step, the boy took a step too. He moved like a zombie, but he moved when they did, not letting them get more than an arm's length away.

It would be a long hike back to the cabin. Sam pushed off with a grunt.

Then they heard it, low in pitch, a lone wolf howl keening through the trees and warbling faintly away.

They weren't alone.

----------

If he could just get off his feet, stop walking, Dean thought maybe he could think straight again. Coherent thoughts came in flashes, like lightning. He would hobble forward, weight on his good leg, and think _how much farther?_, or _how long until sunrise?_, or _are we still going in the right direction?_, calculating the answers instinctively. Then his stride would put the slightest weight on his bad leg and the flash would be gone, and he'd be swallowed up in darkness and a pain that swelled and rumbled like thunder.

He stumbled often, once dragging Sam down with him, and thought giddily that if he were counting the beats between the lightning and the thunder, the way Dad had taught him, then the storm was right there, all around them.

Lying there in the mud, not moving except for the stutter of his chest rising and falling with each misery-soaked hitch of breath, he felt the pain ebb away to a more tolerable level. Instinct kicked in, enough to think calmly and to register his surroundings. Gun still in hand? Check. The sky told him that they were heading north and that dawn was still a couple hours away. He listened for the sound of anything moving through the woods, and there was nothing. Only the sound of his own breathing, exhales coming in shallow pants that sent little clouds of condensation dissipating in front of his face like snowflakes on the windshield of the Impala.

He was so damned cold.

Sam was on his hands and knees, breathing hard. He climbed back to his feet and stood there, weaving unsteadily, before reaching a hand out to help pull Dean up.

"We still going the right way?" Sam asked. He was skilled enough at orienteering, their father's training had seen to that, but he didn't have Dean's homing instincts when they were without a map or compass.

Dean nodded tersely, wrapping his left arm around his brother's neck. Sam's brow was furrowed, his features pinched tight with concentration and something else – and Dean suddenly felt like he'd thrown Sammy to the wolves, no pun intended, dumping all the responsibility for their safety on his untested and maybe unwilling shoulders.

"You're doing fine," Dean told him. Sam blinked and stared at him, as though getting approval on a hunt was something he wasn't used to. It wasn't their father's style, Dean had to admit. And in recent years, when Sam became a teenager and taller than Dean and sometimes sullen and demanding that he wasn't a kid any more, well, maybe encouragement from Dean had become scarcer too.

"We're gonna be okay," Dean said, searching his face until Sam met his eyes. "Yeah?" He waited until Sam straightened his spine and nodded. Then he tapped the boy with his gun hand to start him walking again. "Let's get a move on!"

It was still dark when they finally stumbled into the cabin. Dean fumbled for the nearest lamp switch and flicked it on. Pale yellow light puddled around him, throwing the corners of the room into shadow. Sam nudged the boy forward, and he crawled into the big armchair near the window and curled up into a tight ball, rocking slightly back and forth.

Dean gestured wordlessly where he wanted to go, and Sam helped him hop over to the hearth, where he set the gun high on a ledge where the boy couldn't reach it. Then Sam lowered him awkwardly to the floor, and just stood there looking worriedly at Dean's leg. Blood seeped from his jeans at each puncture point, spreading like a crazy connect-the-dots to form a jagged wet manacle just above his ankle-high boots.

"Dean…." Sam hovered uncertainly, swaying with exhaustion.

"We need to warm this place up," Dean decided, noting that Sam was shivering and still damp from the creek. He stretched out his bad leg, checked the damper, and reached for the stack of wood to start a fire.

Sam's shadow moved away and after a moment, sounds came from the kitchen. Putting water on to boil, ransacking the cabinets for first aid supplies.

Dean glanced up to see what his brother was doing. "Good ol' Duck – we could always count on him when we needed to re-stock our pharmacy," he said. He turned his attention back to his growing pile of firewood, topping the logs with smaller kindling. "Remember that time we came by here, because Dad wanted to trade for stuff for our med kit?"

Sam paused, his back to Dean as he rummaged one-handed through a metal box. "About three years ago, right?" He plucked out a tube of Neosporin and rolls of gauze, and set them on the table.

"That's right." Dean said, coaxing a little orange flame to crawl across the twigs and pinecones at the top of his tower. "Duck really lit into him for taking us on hunts and putting us in situations where we might get hurt and need first aid."

Sam turned to glare at the kettle as though willing the water temperature to rise faster. It didn't help. "You know, I think Dad pissed off every friend he had, but no matter what, even when they fought, Duck always stayed completely loyal to Dad."

"You ended up translating some Latin for Duck that time, in exchange for – let me think -- a suture kit and some antibiotics," Dean said, warming his frozen hands as the fire grew.

"_De Exorcismus et supplicationibus quibusdam_," Sam said. "The Vatican had just published it that year. And you… " He paused, thinking. "You converted his microwave into a foundry for melting silver. Right? We got some Vicodin or Percocet or something for that… none of which are in supply right now," he added. He tossed Dean a nearly empty bottle of Tylenol and Dean dry-swallowed a couple capsules with a nod of thanks.

"We probably can't give the kid anything anyway. He might have a head injury," Dean said, poking at the embers. He didn't mention the fact that his ankle and shin were pretty disappointed at the lack-of-better-drugs news. Dean turned toward the boy. "He hasn't said a word yet, but he walked all the way here - maybe he's not hurt too bad. Let's see if he'll let us check him out, now that we've got better light."

Dean struggled to his feet and took a halting step, reaching for a wooden chair so he wouldn't have to put much weight on his bad leg. The water on the stove began to boil furiously. Sam switched the flame off and set the kettle on the table on a ragged kitchen towel, splashing a little, clumsy in his haste. He stared at Dean's bloodstained leg a moment and his hands fluttered nervously. "Things are under control now, right? You can manage here?"

Dean stopped in his slow progress across the room and turned to look at his younger brother. Sam looked pale and sweaty, but that was only to be expected standing over a steam kettle. But his face was drawn, eyes dark and worried. Scared even. Dean didn't know what was bothering Sam. They were safe now that they were at the cabin.

"I'm good," he answered. "Why?"

"I've gotta go back." Sam walked over to the fireplace, and retrieved his gun.

Dean's jaw dropped and his eyes widened.

"That kid wasn't out there alone," Sam reasoned. "What if it had been one of us with Dad, and we'd been attacked and something dragged us away. Wouldn't you want whoever had rescued us to go back for Dad? In case he's still alive? Hurt bad maybe, but…. "

"Well, yeah!" Dean sputtered. "But…." Every instinct pushed at Dean to say, "I'll go." Or at least "I'll go with you." But he looked down at his throbbing leg and he knew that he couldn't. He'd only slow his brother down.

But damn it, Sam wasn't even out of high school yet. Too young to be wandering the woods alone when there were werewolves about. He'd wanted to prove to Sam that it would be satisfying – hell, it would be _fun_ - hunting with his big brother.

He hadn't wanted Sam out there _alone._

And suddenly he understood why this hunt was different. Why killing the beast didn't bring the rush, the exultation, it always had before. He'd thought maybe it was because Dad hadn't been there. Part of the satisfaction he'd always felt before was in seeing the worry lines ease in his Dad's face and knowing he'd been responsible for that rare, satisfied, weary smile.

But that wasn't why there was no exhilaration this time.

It was because, for one heart-stopping moment, he'd heard that scream in the woods and thought it was Sam. He hadn't been there for him; hadn't protected him.

Now Sam was putting him through that all over again. "It isn't safe," Dean started to say, unconsciously echoing what Sam had said to him the last time they'd parted. But Sam was already opening the door.

"You'd go if you could," Sam said. "I have to try." He stood up taller, squaring his shoulders, and forced a grim smile. Then he gestured back at the contents of the table. "Use the hot water to clean the puncture wounds in that leg," he said. "There's antibiotic cream … an ice pack. And there's plenty of bandages there, if it's still bleeding…. Keep the kid warm … and…."

Dean waved him off; couldn't let Sammy see his fear. "You trying to tell me how to take care of a kid? I think you've forgotten who has the Awesome Big Brother Boy Scout badge." He flashed a cocky grin and some of the tension in Sam's face drained away. "You come right back," Dean added. "No stopping to play with any new friends."

Sam shook his head with a wry smile.

Dean muttered, "Be careful, or I'll kick your ass when you get back" to the door swinging shut behind him.

And then the cabin was quiet. Nothing but the crackle and hiss of embers. And faintly, Dean heard whimpering.

He shrugged off his jacket and hobbled over to the boy still hunched in the chair. "Can you tell me your name yet?"

Nothing.

"Okay. No problem. How about I call you Timmy?" Like TV character Timmy who needed rescuing, and Lassie who went off to find the kid's father. Which would sort of make Sam Lassie, Dean thought. That worked. He'd have to rub Sam's nose in that later.

"So, Timmy," he said, "I bet you're still cold, huh?"

Still no answer. But the boy's eyes were following him now; that was progress. Dean figured it was the hopping. It probably looked silly. Changing directions, he hopped over to the chest under the north window. Yep, Timmy's attention had followed him there. Dean pulled out a thick Hudson Bay blanket and hopped back, settling clumsily on his knees. "You're safe now," he told Timmy, wrapping the striped blanket around the boy's shoulders. "This cabin is owned by a friend of ours named Duck. And that's not his real name either. You wanna know where he got that name from?"

Timmy didn't answer but he tracked Dean's movements as he took the kettle and poured a little hot water on the kitchen towel.

"Well, you see," Dean said, starting to wipe the mud gently from the little boy's face. "He was a medic in the war and his friends called him Doc. He didn't serve with my dad, but Dad always called him that too.

"One day when Sammy was a little guy, barely walking, I was about your age, I guess. What are you, six?"

Timmy frowned.

"Seven?"

Timmy nodded then, almost imperceptibly.

"So anyway," Dean went on, left hand brushing the boy's hair aside to get at a scratch on his temple. "I was reading Sammy one of those picture books with the farm animals. You know the ones? I'd point to a cow and say, _What does a cow say, Sammy?_ and he would say _Mooo_."

Timmy's eyes sparked with recognition. Every toddler played that game. Dean wondered if maybe Timmy had a little brother or sister that age at home.

"_Right,_ I told him," Dean said, blotting at the boy's face. "I said _Moo. And here's a sheep. What does a sheep say?_ And Sammy didn't know that one so I tried again, and said, _What do you say to a sheep?_ And he still didn't answer. Hell – I mean heck – he'd never seen a sheep! So I told him. _Baaaaa_, I said. _And here's a horse. What do you say to the horsey, Sam? Neiiiiighhh._ "

Timmy's lip twitched at Dean's impression.

"So," Dean continued, beginning to clean the other side of Timmy's face. "Just then our dad came in our room and he had this friend with him. And he said, _Boys, this is Doc_. We just looked at him, and Dad wanted us to learn to be polite so he said, _What do you say to Doc?_ And Sammy said, _Quack, quack, quack!_"

This time Timmy actually smiled sleepily, gap-toothed and dimpled. Dean grinned back. "So, yeah, my dorky little brother gave him the nickname Duck and we've called him that ever since." He leaned forward to start to work the boy's arms out of his jacket sleeves, and then froze. Under the maroon parka Timmy was wearing a maize-gold University of Michigan sweatshirt. The neck opening was streaked with dark red blotches.

Oh shit.

"Sorry, sorry, am I hurting you?" Dean stammered, gently pushing aside the material to check the wound underneath.

There was no wound underneath.

Dean's fingers flew over the boy, checking for flinching reactions, for ripped fabric, for deformities, for blood. The only reaction was a yawn; Timmy's head bobbing as his little body started to grow heavy and limp. Dean's hands stilled when they reached Timmy's hood, and found it shredded where canine teeth had bitten through the nylon. Beyond that, nothing. Except the crimson splotches by Timmy's collarbone.

Has to be the werewolf's blood, Dean told himself, knuckles white as he clenched the front of the parka. Has to be. He continued peeling the boy out of his wet clothes and wrapping him in the warm blanket while his mind raced. If it wasn't the boy's blood, it had to be the wolf's. Right?

On his knees, Dean reached for the couch cushions and pulled a couple onto the floor close to the fire. Timmy was practically asleep in the chair, so Dean gathered him in his arms and transferred him to the warm nest he'd created, tucking the blanket securely around the boy.

Timmy's eyes slowly closed and stayed shut.

Dean scooped up the wet clothes to drape near the fire to dry, and stared at the bloodstain again. He had shot the werewolf in the back. Sam had been sheltering Timmy with his own body when the wolf attacked.

His heart started beating a mile a minute; his mind working even faster.

He knew it wasn't the werewolf's blood on Timmy's sweatshirt.

It was Sam's.


	3. Chapter 3

**Blue Moon Rising Part 3 of 4 **

Dean jumped up and took a step toward the door without even thinking about what he was going to do. Sam was hurt; he had to get to him. It was instinct, but his injured leg had other ideas and dropped him to his knees. He bit off a cry and clutched at his shin, writhing with pain.

When he could sit up again, he forced himself to think. Christ, his brother was out there, bleeding. What the hell had happened? Had the wolf clawed him? He could have. Dean hadn't seen exactly what had happened in the stream. He'd just taken the shot…oh, god, what if he'd shot Sam? What if the bullet had gone through the werewolf and hit Sam?

Another possibility arose in his mind. Dean swallowed hard, and took a shaky breath. What if the werewolf had bitten Sam? He'd been bitten, and he was going to turn into a wolf and…no. No. That couldn't happen. If Sam had been bitten…oh, god, he couldn't let Sam turn. There had to be a way, Duck had _said_ there was a way, think! But Dean couldn't think. All he could do was pray that he had somehow shot his brother. Because he could live with that. Bullet wounds healed, and he could imagine Sam ribbing him for the next ten years about that time Dean had shot a werewolf and his brother with one bullet.

Dean tried to get up from the floor, but his leg wasn't cooperating. He slammed a fist into the floor, and the fresh pain made him think of Dad. What the hell would Dad say about this? What would Dad do if he were here?

How many times had his father been hurt and yet managed to do the job and make it home? He just had to stay calm.

But - he had to get help, had to do research, had to do something, anything, and all he wanted to do was freak the hell out, because Sam was out there, bleeding, and there wasn't a damned thing Dean could do about it.

No.

No.

Think like Dad would think.

One thing at a time. One thing at a time.

He forced himself to take a calming breath. Another. Then he pulled himself up to sit in one kitchen chair and elevated his left leg on the other chair.

This is what he needed to do before he could help Sam.

Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. He'd learned the first aid basics R-I-C-E practically before he'd learned his A-B-Cs.

The puncture marks were close enough to the ankle that he could tug his jeans up out of the way. He decided to leave the boot on. Didn't think the ankle strain was bad, but he could feel the swelling pressing against the leather, and knew he might not get his boot back on if he took it off now.

He soaked the towel with more water from the kettle, still steaming hot, and winced as he swabbed away the blood. Maybe if he hadn't walked all that way, the bleeding would have stopped by now. At least it had slowed to an ooze.

Bruising had already started, and the skin around the punctures was stretched tight above his boot. Sam, bless him, had anticipated what he might need; arranged everything within reach so he could try to stay off his injured leg. Dean spread a thin coat of antibiotic on the gauze and wound a strip around his lower calf and shin, tying it off with a grunt.

Now, what he needed more than anything else was Duck's journal.

There was a cane propped against the wall in the corner of the room, beside another basket of Duck's incongruous knitting. He made his way to it gingerly, leaning on other furniture along the way, and then used the cane to hobble to the study. Coming back with the journal, he paused at the hearth where Timmy lay sleeping, his cheeks pink in the glow of the fire. Dean added another log to the fire, sank into a chair facing the kitchen, and stared thoughtfully at the yellow and purple dried flowers hanging upside down over the window. The sky through the window looked lighter, with dawn less than an hour away.

This time of year, this part of the country, the moon would set almost an hour before sunrise. Sam and Duck should be safe now.

If they weren't already hurt too badly to make it back.

Sammy couldn't be hurt badly, he told himself fiercely. Sam had practically carried him here. It was just a scratch. He would chew him out and fix him up. Just like Dad would do.

Dean turned back toward the table, elevated his leg with a hiss, balanced the icy gel pack where his shin met his ankle, and opened the journal with sweaty palms. Loose newspaper clippings fluttered out; he brushed them impatiently aside. The book was organized in orderly sections – maps, chronology, subspecies, interviews, theories …. A snapshot, creased and faded, served as a bookmark to the section labeled 'Treatments, Antidotes, Cures'.

The photo showed a squad of Marines in camouflage, rifles in hand, slouched in front of a jeep, rice paddy in the background. Blue ink scrawled across the bottom – Echo 2/1, Quang Nam province, 1972. With a start, he recognized the soldier in the middle wearing the stripes of a corporal. It was Dad.

God, he wished Dad was here.

-----------

A sound on the porch had Dean jerking his head up off his sleeve, blinking, and cursing himself for nodding off. It didn't matter that lack of sleep, shock, and blood loss were perfectly good reasons for passing out.

He grabbed the cane and was on his feet before the heavy door was pushed open. A freezing gust of wind slapped him in the face. Dead leaves skittered across the threshold like scurrying mice, and then the room fell still again when a tall figure blocked the wind and shut the door carefully behind him. Stood there weaving on his feet, exhausted.

Sam.

Dean grabbed his sleeve and led him to the armchair. Sam followed docilely and collapsed into it, teeth chattering. "Is Duck b-back? Is he okay?"

"He's not back yet," Dean said. "Give him time." He looked over at Timmy, still sleeping by the fire, and lowered his voice. "Did you find anything?"

Sam grunted as he struggled out of his coat. "Yeah. One of those camo hunting blinds - not far from where we were. There was a body. A man. Dead." He stopped, breathing heavily. One arm was free; the other still trapped in its sleeve. Dean pulled up one of the wooden chairs to take the weight off his leg, and sat down to help Sam work the coat the rest of the way off.

"His neck was broken," Sam continued. "Didn't look like much of a struggle. I think maybe the werewolf attacked while they were sleeping, then dragged the boy off." He bit off a cry as his arm was jarred and Dean froze mid-tug.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, all the pent-up worry finally morphing into anger. "Leaving here without telling me you were hurt!"

"I couldn't wait any longer," Sam said, unable to hide the grimace. "Once I knew you and the boy were safe. I couldn't think about anything else. I kept thinking – what if it was Dad? I had to try to find him – in case he was still alive." He stopped wrestling with his coat, remembered the gun and passed it over to Dean. "How's the kid doing?"

Dean tucked the gun in his belt and limped over to check on the boy. "Sleeping," he answered. "He still hasn't said a word, so I've been calling him Timmy. I don't think he's hurt. Not physically." He turned back, eyes huge and dark as he stared at Sam, who had finished sliding his arm free. Sam's left side, shoulder, arm, were all saturated with blood. "But you - - God, Sam --"

Before Dean could choke out what he was going to say, Sam's eyes rolled back and he slumped forward, toppling onto the threadbare rug with a resounding thud. Dean scrabbled across the floor to reach him. As gently as his panic would allow, he rolled Sam onto his back and felt for the pulse in his neck with trembling fingers.

It was there, weak and rapid.

Dean couldn't just leave him sprawled and lifeless on the floor, reminding him of those damned chalk outlines on one of those stupid crime shows on TV. Gritting his teeth, he fisted one hand in the back of Sam's collar, and dragged his brother to the den.

Heaving him onto the lower bunk left Dean gasping for breath. Finally, he had Sam arranged flat on his back – still far too corpse-like for comfort. He pulled off Sam's shoes and grabbed a wool blanket from the pile on the top bunk to spread over him. Then he set the gun safely on the top bunk, rolled the desk chair to the side of the bed, and sank into it with a grateful sigh. He took Sam's cold and clammy hand, and gave it a warming squeeze.

"You're going to be alright, you know," Dean said, even though his brother couldn't hear. "I was hoping Duck would be back by now, but –" He swallowed. "I've been going through his journal, his notes, and it's all right here, what to do." Dean scrubbed his hands nervously on his jeans. "So - don't worry."

The first step was standard triage procedure, used whenever any of them had gotten hurt on a hunt. Get a good look at the wound. It didn't take long to assure himself that Sam wasn't hurt anywhere but the left shoulder, despite the copious amount of blood.

Dean found scissors in the desk and cut away the denim shirt, leaving Sam in a blood-soaked tee shirt. Wincing, he fingered the cloth. These weren't puncture marks like the holes in his jeans. These were long jagged tears where fangs had ripped through skin and muscle. Dean's hands stilled, picturing the jaws snapping shut when they clamped on bone. With sudden clarity he stood up to lean over Sam. Damn it. There was another row of gouges on his back, near the top of the shoulder blade.

This was … this was … something Dean really wasn't ready for. He had patched up his family before. But this was … asking a lot more.

Why hadn't Duck come back?

Dean took a deep breath, got up and gimped his way back into the other room. He'd thought this through, and had the supplies already gathered in a small paper bag sitting on top of Duck's journal. He grabbed the cane in one hand, the bag and book in the other, and with a final glance at Timmy, deep in slumber, he returned to his brother's side.

Setting the bag on the floor, he looked up and met Sam's eyes, wet and scared, looking back at him.

"Dean?"

"Shit, Sammy," Dean muttered. "I didn't want you awake through this."

"You're not …" Sam stopped, gritting his teeth, reacting to a wave of pain even though Dean hadn't touched him yet. "You weren't bitten were you?" Panic was rising in his voice.

Dean shook his head. It was obviously a struggle now for Sam to think clearly, to remember.

"And the kid? And Duck? No-one else got bitten?"

Dean didn't know what had happened to Duck, so it wasn't really a lie. "No, no-one else," he whispered.

Sam raised his good arm, reached for Dean. His fingers clutched Dean's sleeve with surprising strength. "Dean. God, Dean - don't let me…."

"Shhh. Shhhh." Dean took his arm and set it gently across Sam's ribs. "Nothing bad's gonna happen to you, Sammy. There's a cure in here." He held up Duck's journal. "Don't you remember? Duck told us there was an antidote if we treat the wound before …." Dean choked on the words 'before you turn'. "Before moonrise," he amended.

Hope warred with doubt in Sam's eyes, and Dean called on all his experience as a con artist to look confident and unworried. "Hey - didja see those purple-y flowers hanging in Duck's kitchen?" He grinned. "Despite the knitting – he hasn't gone Martha Stewart on us. Those flowers are wolfsbane. It's all in here. Used since ancient times to kill wolves. Legends say it can repel the effects of werewolves. The good news is, it's used in folk medicine as a painkiller too."

"Good…." Sam swallowed back a moan, blinked, made an effort to think clearly. "So – does that mean there's a bad news too?"

Dean balanced the journal on his knee and opened it to a marked page. "Well," he started to say, and sighed. He hated this. But he owed it to his brother to give him the truth. If Sam said 'stop', he wouldn't go through with it. Whatever they did or didn't do now, it would be Sam's choice. "Says here as little as 2 mg, taken internally, can be fatal." He looked up from the page to face Sam. "Duck's not really sure how much is safe to apply externally."

"Well, as long as it works as a painkiller," Sam said, trying to keep his tone light, but another wave of pain robbed it of the intended irony.

"Sam – "

"It's okay, Dean." Sam relaxed his clenched jaw as the spasm passed. "'Fatal' isn't the worst alternative."

Dean's chest felt tight. "So." He cleared his throat and his eyes darted to the supplies at his feet. "Duck's journal says there are three steps. You ready?"

Sam nodded weakly. "Some vacation, huh?"

"What?"

"You said to think of this like a vacation from school," Sam explained, smile faint, but there.

Christ.

If Sam was teasing him, rubbing it in, he had to be okay. He had to be.

Dean glanced down at the book-marked journal, then back at Sam. "First step is a pentagram, for protection," Dean told him. According to Duck's notes, it had to be drawn in blood from the victim's wound. He leaned forward, willing himself to examine the torn flesh across the clavicle as dispassionately as dissecting a frog in biology class. One slice was particularly deep; through the still oozing blood Dean could see bone. Wincing, he pressed on the side of the wound. Sam hissed and his head came off the bed while a fresh stream of blood seeped to the surface. Quickly, Dean dipped his right forefinger in the red puddle and dragged it in a rough star pattern across the bruising on Sam's shoulder.

"Mark of the werewolf's prey," Dean read from the journal. He reached into the paper sack. "Wolfsbane's next." Duck had already prepared an extract in powdered form, stored in a small vial. Dean sprinkled some in each of the ragged tracks on the front of Sam's shoulder. Cupping his hand around the nape of Sam's neck, he raised him off the bed just enough to pour the remaining powder on the wounds across the back of his shoulder.

"Aconitum napellus," Dean continued. "Check." That left the final step. Chewing his lip, he let himself feel a flicker of hope when he saw that Sam's eyes were shut.

"Sam?" he asked softly.

His heart fell when Sam's eyes fluttered open. "I'm here. I'm okay," Sam said. "What's left?"

What was left, Dean knew, was cauterizing the wound. As deeply as possible, to get to the source of the poison.

The journal was very specific on how this should be done. And Dean had followed the instructions to the letter. This was too important to risk short cuts or substitutions.

Duck had plenty of cartridges around and Dean had had no trouble finding tools to crack one open. He'd separated the casing from the primer, the gunpowder and the bullet. It was the gunpowder he was after, and he'd carefully scraped it into an old envelope. The envelope and a lighter were sitting in the bottom of the paper bag – the last ingredients.

Sam's eyes widened as Dean poured the black powder into the deepest gash. With a twitch, Sam shifted his gaze to stare straight overhead. Dean tapped the final grains out of the envelope and - stopped. Could he really go though with this?

But Sam nodded. He was ready. A tear slid toward his ear when he heard the lighter ignite.

Dean covered Sam's eyes with one hand, holding him still on the bed. As he directed the flame, he whispered, "It's gonna be okay, Sammy."

Sam screamed.

----------

"What the hell happened here?"

Dean jolted awake, chair spinning half way around before he could remember where he was. Duck stood in the doorway, wrung out, his voice raw as if he'd been screaming. But he hadn't been, that had been…

Sam.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and took in his surroundings. He was in the den, sunlight pouring in through the grimy window. Sam was still stretched out on the unmade bunk, feet dangling off the end of it. He was out cold, but his chest rose reassuringly up and down.

On the floor beside him, Dean discovered a lump of plaid wool blankets that had somehow fallen off Sam. He plucked one corner back and found Timmy curled up on the braided rug, sound asleep, hugging a dilapidated pillow like a big stuffed animal.

Memory flooded back. Timmy had woken up terrified when Sam screamed. He'd run into the room and flung himself into Dean's arms, and Dean had held him tight until the little boy finally subsided in hiccuping sobs. He couldn't leave the kid alone now, so he'd set him on the rug at his feet, while he finished bandaging Sam's shoulder. Somehow, they'd both drifted asleep.

Duck was leaning over Sam now, peeling away that bandage. There was little doubt it was a bite wound. Dried blood still revealed the hint of a small pentagram, distorted only slightly by the swelling. The skin around the deepest gash was blistered, charred, and Dean cringed at the memory.

Duck stooped to pluck his journal off the floor where it had fallen, and saw the entry Dean had marked. Dean sat very still, hands clasped together as if in handcuffs, like a prisoner awaiting the jury's decision. Duck glanced from Sam to the little boy at their feet and then at the bloodstains on the leg of Dean's jeans. "You've had your hands full, son," Duck said, not unkindly, pressing a hand on Dean's shoulder as he stood. "I'll put on some coffee, and you can tell me what happened."

When he came back, Dean hadn't moved. Duck handed Dean a steaming mug, and sank wearily into the old rocking chair.

"Okay. Tell me."

Dean sagged back into his chair and his hands shook a little. He balanced the mug on his knee until he felt steadier. Duck didn't press him; just waited, sipping his own coffee in silence.

And then Dean told him. Everything. Shouldn't have let Sam ditch school in the first place to come here. Said it was his idea, not Sam's, to stake out the woods instead of staying in the cabin like they were told. It was his fault for leaving Sam alone to go patrolling.

Duck had been on hunts with the Winchesters before, and he understood Dean. He knew that Dean would take all the credit, whether he deserved it or not - but only when it didn't matter in the least. Dean would take all the blame, deserved or not - when he thought it mattered a great deal.

This one couldn't matter more.

Duck leaned over and stroked Timmy's dirty blond hair. The boy snuffled in his sleep, but didn't wake. "Dean, this little guy is alive now because of the choices you made. You can't regret that, can you?"

"But, Sam -"

"Sam is going to be okay." Duck rocked back, tapped his journal. "You found the antidote in here, and it looks like you did everything right."

"Really?" Dean's voice cracked, made him sound years younger.

Duck had never heard him sound so scared and vulnerable. "You did everything right," Duck repeated. "This treatment destroys the werewolf venom; Sam won't turn. But… " He took another swig of coffee, wishing he'd put something stronger in it, hating the truth and feeling helpless. "The legends call the treatment 'Kill or Cure'. By moonrise we'll know. He'll break the curse –"

On the bed, Sam stirred, muttered something that sounded like "Dean..." and then subsided.

"Or what? He'll die trying?" Dean turned back to Duck, eyes beseeching.

Duck knew that John raised his boys to handle the truth. He met Dean's agonized look and didn't - couldn't - say anything.

His silence was all the answer Dean needed.

Duck set down his empty mug and went to the closet to get another blanket. His boot nudged the soccer ball beside the crate on the floor, and a comic book slid from the top of the pile to the floor. For a moment, he just stood there lost in thought. Finally, he turned back to Dean. "Last time it was you lying on this bunk, and Sam taking care of you. You remember that?"

Dean frowned, searching.

"You were around 17, I think. New road had just been built in the next county, over what turned out to be an Algonquin Indian burial ground. Raised a _hockomock_ –"

"That's right. A phantom panther." It was coming back to him. "Haunted the road at dusk. Drivers reported they felt an impact, thought they hit something; got out of the car to check. It clawed 'em up pretty fierce."

"Clawed you up pretty fierce too."

Through his shirt, Dean fingered the fine scar across his ribcage. Tiny black stitches once upon a time, painstakingly neat and tidy, that had healed well enough, leaving a flat pink welt. It had happened on a dark and starless night, when Dad had finally recovered after that long convalescence and was eager for a hunt. Just the two of them that evening - Duck had second shift at the hospital, and Sam was busy with soccer try-outs. Dean remembered a narrow two-lane country road, a warm breeze, and watching his dad's back. And then suddenly the creature was behind him, snarling and slashing, and he heard the thrum of his father's crossbow – and then nothing.

"So, Sammy watched over me while I slept too?" Sam twitched and gave a soft moan. Dean wrapped his fingers around his brother's wrist until he quieted again. "It's just my turn now, huh?"

"Not just that. Sam's the one that stitched you up, too."

"You're kidding." Dean dragged his gaze away from his brother to stare at Duck. "I always thought you did it, being a medic and all."

"Your dad made Sam do it. Said he was old enough to learn how. He stood right behind him, watching, the whole time while I talked Sam through it." Duck remembered John's hand, heavy on Sam's shoulder. Knew by the look in his dark eyes that John meant the gesture to lend strength and support. Knew that Sam was blinking back tears at every stitch that made Dean flinch, and felt his father's hand only as discipline and pressure.

Damn fools.

"I don't remember coming back from that hunt at all. " Dean frowned. "Nothin' till the next day. I do remember Sammy bein' kinda weird when he got home from school though. Moody. Like he gets sometimes when he's worried or pissed off and won't talk about it. I always thought he was upset 'cause he got cut from the soccer team that day."

"Sam told you he got cut?"

"Well – yeah." Dean shrugged. "Didn't he?"

"The coach's wife was a nurse at Mercy; I saw him from time to time when he picked Jill up after work. All those training sessions with your dad must've paid off – Joe said Sam was fearless and fast, and he thought quick on his feet – he anticipated well. Joe thought with Sam on the team, they'd have a serious shot at the playoffs. He was real disappointed when Sam quit."

"Dad didn't make him give it up. I know he didn't." Dean was sure of that. Yeah, Dad and Sam had argued plenty about school sports and the time it took from more important training, like bow hunting. But if Dad had issued an ultimatum, Dean knew it wouldn't have been done quietly. He would have heard it.

"Apparently Sam told the coach he couldn't handle all the practices," Duck said. "Said he needed the time to keep up on his homework."

"Homework?" Dean choked back a laugh. "Sammy used to finish all his homework during class, and mine too, when he was that age. I don't think he ever worried about homework until he signed up for these stupid AP classes."

"I guess Sam just gave up soccer on his own then. After that hunt when you got hurt, when he wasn't there to watch your back."

"Duck, he was just 13. He was crazy about soccer, and school, and fitting in. Sam wouldn't have…"

"You would have."

"Well, yeah, but…"

"Dean - sometimes I think you're a little too close to the forest to see the trees. Sam always wanted to be just like you."

"He's nothing like me!" Dean sputtered.

"But your dad – he's grooming Sam to be like you, isn't he? He sets a standard and you always meet it. And he expects the same from Sam. Right?" Duck held Dean's gaze until he nodded imperceptibly. "And be honest. Don't you act like you expect that from Sam too?"

Dean didn't answer. He _didn't_ expect Sam to behave just like him – but he had to admit, he _acted_ like he did. Especially the older Sam got. When Sam didn't meet the same expectations John Winchester set for them both, Dean usually backed their dad in pushing Sam.

"So. Don't be so surprised to discover that he's been really trying. Even when it goes against what he wants or values."

Dean had nothing to say to that either.

"Look, there's things I need to take care of now." Duck yawned, looking like a man who hadn't slept in days. "I need to go find the body you shot last night, before anyone else does, and dispose of it."

Dean nodded, remembering Sam and Dad arguing over that issue too. The loublin. It was one of Dean's first solo kills, and he was basking in his father's pride and still riding that rush of adrenaline. Then John had called Sam out from the car to help burn the remains, and it had been the first time that Sam had seen for himself that a werewolf returns to human form after death. This one had been a teenage boy. 'He has family, somewhere!' Sam had protested. 'Do you have any idea what it's like to wait and worry, and wonder if someone you care about is okay; if you're ever gonna see him again? Do you?' Sam's voice had cracked then, with an adolescent squawk that just seemed to make him madder. 'Can't we just leave him here, let someone find him and let his family know?'

Dad had just about snapped Sam's head off that time. He almost never raised his hand to his boys, but he sure as hell could raise his voice. Dean knew Dad was right about this. He usually was.

"I know," Dean said. "Cops'll quit look looking for a missing person a helluva lot quicker than they'll stop investigating a murder case."

"When it's done, I'll drive into town, report that I found a mauled body where that boy's father was killed – let the authorities deal with that one."

Sam twitched again, and started to shiver in earnest. Dean took the blanket from Duck and spread it over his brother. "What about Sam?" he asked. "Shouldn't we get him to the hospital? And take the kid in too?"

"I'll stop back here and pick up the boy on my way into town. Say I found him wandering lost in the woods." Duck looked down at the little boy on the floor and anger clouded his face. "What sort of a man would take his son hunting with him at that age?"

Dean just blinked, eyes hollow, face set in stone.

Duck let it go.

"And Sam?" Dean asked again.

"Yeah, we could take him in. And get that leg of yours treated too," Duck said. "But I'll be honest with you, Dean. If we take Sam to the ER, they'll probably try to get his temperature down. That's the last thing he needs. For the remedy to work, we need to let the fever run its course, to burn out the poison."

"You're sure?"

Duck nodded. "If the fever breaks before the moon rises, he'll be safe. He'll have sweated all the werewolf venom out of his system."

"But what if it doesn't break? What if his temp gets so high he has a seizure? He could die here, Duck!"

"He could." Duck swept Sam's bangs aside, felt his forehead, and noted the perspiration starting to bead there. "I guess you have to ask yourself, what would Sam want you to do?"

Dean subsided. He knew what Sam would choose.

And if he honored that choice, then whatever happened now, at least Sam wouldn't be alone. Not this time. If they went to the hospital, Dean knew they'd be separated. He needed this, he needed to know that he hadn't abandoned Sam, hadn't let his brother go off without him.

He needed to be there for him. This time more than ever. Especially if….

Dean swiped a hand over his eyes. The decision was made. "We'll stay."

"Good." Duck rubbed his knee and then straightened. "Let me check out that leg of yours and then I need to get going."

"Nah – you better go take care of that carcass before someone stumbles across it. I'm good."

Duck studied Dean carefully, reassuring himself that he'd be okay. Finally, he nodded and moved stiffly toward the door.

"You sure you're up to that?" Dean asked.

"No choice," Duck said simply and walked away.

No shit, Dean thought as the door shut behind Duck. That was the story of their lives, that fatalistic 'no choice'. He sighed. And between the soft snores of Timmy at his feet, and the ragged pain-hitched breathing of his unconscious brother, Dean let his head nod forward and let exhaustion claim him again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Blue Moon Rising, Part 4 of 4 **

"Shhhh. Don't wake Sam."

Dean still didn't realize that those words were almost guaranteed to pull his brother out of a deep slumber. If Dean and Dad were plotting in the front seat of the car on those long trips in the dead of night while he dozed in the back, all it took was for one of them to lower his voice and say "don't wake Sammy" and that sent a subliminal jolt that brought him fully aware. Not that he ever admitted to listening, afterward. 'Don't wake Sam' usually meant secrets he wasn't meant to hear.

It was different this time. He felt sunlight on his face. He could tell he wasn't in a moving car but stretched out on his back on a lumpy mattress. And he knew, from years of experience, that even though he didn't yet remember why, he shouldn't move because it would hurt.

So he lay there, eyes shut and motionless, trying half-heartedly to figure out why he knew he shouldn't move, and trying with a little more curiosity to figure out who Dean was whispering to.

"_The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind_

_and another_

_his mother called him 'WILD THING'_

_and Max said 'I'LL EAT YOU UP!'_

_so he was sent to bed without eating anything…_

_That very night in Max's room a forest grew…" _

It came back to Sam in a rush and his eyes flew open. Dean was sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of the room, and the tow-headed little boy they had rescued in the night was curled in his lap. Timmy, that's what Dean called him. Timmy was cradled against Dean's chest, clutching Duck's afghan tightly. Dean's arms held him securely, and Sam saw that his brother wasn't reading from a book. He had the story memorized.

A small smile spread across Sam's face, realizing that Dean knew the words by heart – and why. Funny - until this moment, Sam hadn't remembered a time when he couldn't read. But he remembered now, being curled up under Dean's arm while Dean turned the pages of the book, pointed out the words, and imitated the wild things when they _roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws…._

That's a helluva story to be telling to a kid who was just attacked by a werewolf! What was Dean thinking?

Sam struggled to sit up, to say something, and then sagged back as pain stabbed through his shoulder and pinned him to the flat pillow. Breathing shallowly through parted lips, he cracked his eyes open again and watched his brother.

Dean was rubbing Timmy's back with one hand. The deep timbre of his voice was apparently soothing and not frightening at all as he described Max saying, 'BE STILL' and taming them "_with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once." _

In a crazy Dean-way, it made sense, Sam realized. No-one knew better than he did that his big brother was an expert when it came to comforting a little kid. Especially a kid who had seen horrific things – things no child should ever have to see.

_"… Max stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye _

_and sailed back over a year_

_and in and out of weeks _

_and through a day_

_and into the night of his very own room _

_where he found his supper waiting for him_

_and it was still hot." _

It was a kid's classic, the story of a little boy conquering the scary wild things, and then returning home to find his mother waiting to take care of him again. Timmy's fingers loosened their grip on the afghan, and he snuggled deeper into Dean's arms. His eyes fluttered shut as he lost the battle to stay awake.

Sam felt himself snagged by the same undertow. Sleep pulled at him, his thoughts floating away like grave mist as he slid toward unconsciousness again. He imagined himself as Max, and embracing the temptation to just run away, to sail off to another world, away from family and everything he knows. Ironic - that he would be sailing away from the wild things instead of toward them …

-----------------

Duck came back mid-day, sweaty and smelling like soot. He found Dean in the rocking chair, and Timmy was awake and curled up in his lap. Dean was demonstrating how to solve the Rubik's cube. Duck was sure the child wasn't listening to a word Dean said, but the words were calming, and he was mesmerized by the colors revolving into place.

"Cold snap last night," Duck reported. "Glad I just had to burn, and not bury. But I've gotta shower before I take the kid into town," he added, wrinkling his nose as he examined the black streaks on his hands. "How's everything here?"

"Sam hasn't woken up," Dean said, worry laced through his tone.

"Rest is the best thing for him." Duck placed his fingers against the inside of Sam's wrist, nodded at what he found. "He'd be hurting if he was awake. Speaking of which, how's the leg?" Duck had noticed the cane propped against the bunk beds – understood that it must be pretty bad if Dean would admit to needing support to move around.

"The bone's not broken," Dean answered, noncommittal. He looked from the cane back to Duck. "Wasn't sorry to see you had that handy though."

"Hurt my knee a couple years ago," Duck told him. "Haven't needed it since. Which reminds me - when was your last tetanus shot?"

"Just last year. Sam too. We're good."

Timmy tugged at Dean's arm and he turned back to his small charge with a forced smile. "So, one more twist… and ta da! Now we have the upper face finished," he said triumphantly. "All – blue."

Timmy looked from the cube to Dean with a skeptical face.

"D'oh! You're right! That's white, not blue! Okay. Okay. So, the top is done. Next we tackle the corners. What color do you think should go here?"

Duck stepped quietly out of the room, ran a hot shower, then took the time to scramble some eggs. They were all running on fumes. Dean helped Timmy back into his clothes, stiff but dry now, and cocooned him in a Hudson Bay blanket by the fire with some of the comic books he'd discovered earlier. Then, over coffee and eggs, he and Duck spoke with lowered voices.

"Was it Harper?"

Duck nodded. Silent, thoughtful.

"If you knew Harper was after you, why did we have to wait till a full moon to try to stop him?" Dean couldn't help asking. "I mean, I get that that you're opposed to killing, but this was self-defense, man!"

"It wouldn't have mattered," Duck said grimly. "The truth of the matter is that some kinds of werewolf are damned near indestructible in their human form. The only way to kill one of those is while it's in wolf form." He stirred the eggs on his plate into the puddle of ketchup, but showed no interest in actually eating them. "I'd heard the lore," he continued, "but I don't know that I believed it till I started researching the Harpers. There was a photo of David Harper in the newspaper in 1985, after he was first attacked. He hasn't aged a day since. And he was in a car crash a few years ago that should have killed him, but he walked away without a scratch." He set down the fork, appetite gone. "I think I told you boys there were a couple things different about Blue Moon werewolves. The first was the unique lunar cycle. The second is that in their human state, they're pretty damned immortal."

"You think he was the only one out there?" Dean was thinking of the other wolf howl they had heard. Could have been a normal wolf. Couldn't it?

"I think there's one more," Duck said. "I saw a shadow moving through the woods last night. About an hour before dawn. Too big to be a regular wolf." Duck took a long swig of his coffee, and sighed. "I found tracks where the shadow had passed. That was about a mile from where you killed Harper. Definitely werewolf."

Dean cradled his hands around his mug, but the warmth didn't touch the chill running down his spine.

"You know I'll have to go out again tonight," Duck said.

Dean nodded.

Duck drained his mug and pushed his chair back from the table. "I expect the authorities'll keep me tied up with questions for awhile. I'll try to stop back here, but if I get held up in town, I'll just go straight to the woods instead. I want to be in position before the moon rises."

_Before…? _

"You won't be here…?" Dean's eyes darted back to the room where Sam slept. God, he never thought… This was all his fault. He had wanted a taste of the future. On the road together, hunting evil, just the two of them. And now it would be just the two of them alone together after all, and Dean desperately wanted a do-over.

"It won't come to that, Dean," Duck said quietly. "Sam's more like your dad than either of you realize. And we both know he's too stubborn to die."

Dean sucked in a deep breath, and sighed. "I saw that photo," he said, his eyes flicking to the journal. He hadn't recognized Duck among the men in the picture. "Is that where you met my dad? In Vietnam?"

"Not me. My kid brother Mark - he knew John first. They were in the same squad," Duck said. "Mark was a short-timer when that snapshot was taken, just before his last mission. A skirmish in a little village in the Quang Nam province. The VC had just melted back into the jungle, or disappeared down those damn tunnels, and the squad was cleaning up." He tilted his chair back, reliving the moment as Mark had described it, vivid details engraved in his memory.

"There was a kid, a young girl about 14. She was walking up to our guys, her arms covered in blood, and Mark ran toward her. Wanting to help, you know? He saw the grenade, too late. The look of hatred in her eyes. And he just froze. He couldn't move. Couldn't think about anything, except that she was just a kid." Duck's voice grew husky; he broke off and went still.

Finally Dean asked. "What happened?"

"Your dad shot her. She fell on her own grenade and what was left – well – Mark said it didn't look like a little girl any more." Duck climbed to his feet, reached for his coat. "If it wasn't for your dad, my brother would've come home in a body bag." His eyes locked with Dean's. "I would do anything, _anything_, for John Winchester, and it would never be enough to repay that debt."

Dean understood.

-----------------

The cabin was quiet. Duck and Timmy were gone, and Dean sat at the kitchen table again, his hair damp from a shower, wearing fresh clothes, his stomach no longer grumbling. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Duck had made him take a break; said he could keep an eye on Sam. It gave Dean a chance to feel human again, but lack of sleep wasn't overcome that easily and, though he wouldn't admit it to Duck, his leg did more than just ache.

He didn't know how long he'd sat there – just numb with exhaustion. And his heart was still clenched in a cold fist of worry.

One boot on and one boot off, Dean propped his left leg on the other wooden chair and tugged up the bottom of his jeans. God bless Duck for updating the shower head since they'd lived there – now it had decent pressure and he'd been able to direct the spray on his injured leg long enough to scour out any dirt and debris. His shin was red, puffy … and the throbbing went deep, to the bone. He reached for some gauze and the Neosporin, and stopped when he heard a noise.

"Dean?"

Sam was propped against the doorframe, his right hand pinning his left arm to his side, pale and trembling.

How can anyone so big look so fragile, Dean thought.

"You okay?" Even Sam's voice wavered. "That looks bad." He took a step forward and gestured at the ugly puncture wounds. Finally freed of the boot, Dean's ankle was swollen and purple too.

"Dude, you do not get to ask that when you're the one who looks like a feather could knock you over." Dean reached for the cane, and was at Sam's side just as his brother's knees started to buckle. "I'm fine. If you'd stay put, you'd be fine too. C'mon."

Dean steered him back to the bed.

"It's my turn for the top bunk," Sam said. "You had it last time."

Dean froze; panic blossoming in his chest that Sam was delirious. Then he heard Sam's chuckle, bitten off when the laugh bubbled out and jarred his shoulder. "Never mind," Sam said, still with a hint of a smile. "I'll just take this one." He twisted around and sank down to a sitting position on the lower bunk. Dean's hand hovered over the back of Sam's head to make sure he didn't smack it on the bed frame. He could feel the heat radiating from his brother's neck.

Sam sagged back against the mattress and let out a shaky breath. "Where's Duck?"

"Duck's fine." Dean dropped into the chair beside the bed and set the cane on the floor. "He came back and checked you out and said you're gonna be fine too."

The fingers of Sam's right hand fluttered over the bandage. "I remember … you found something in Duck's journal." His jaw clenched. "But I don't remember Duck coming back."

"Yeah, well, you slept through that part." There was a time and a place for razzing your brother about fainting like a girl. This wasn't one of them. "He went into town to hand Timmy over to someone who can take care of him. If he doesn't make it back before nightfall, he said he'd head straight for the woods again – take care of that other sucker we heard howling last night."

"'m c-cold."

The fact that Sam was reduced to single syllables worried Dean, and he realized Sam was shivering even as his cheeks flushed a mottled red. Dean spread the blanket back over him. "Duck said to expect a fever - it's just your body's way of sweating out the werewolf's poison. He said we did everything right - you won't be affected when the moon rises. You just need to rest now."

Sam nodded, didn't answer. His eyes were dull, like unpolished agate marbles, and he finally gave up the effort to keep them open.

Dean hobbled back to the other room, and hastily finished wrapping his bad leg. It was a struggle to get the boot back on over the swelling and he winced and cursed, and finally slammed his heel home with a cry of pain and triumph. Then he hurried back to his brother's side. Helpless to do anything further now, but watch and wait.

The sun drifted down toward the horizon like a dying balloon and painted the sky with swirls of pink, like blood in a basin of water. Watching it though the dirty window, it seemed to Dean that as the sun sank lower, Sam's fever rose, fighting the infection but also burning away the wolfsbane and whatever painkilling effect it might have had. Sam clutched his left arm above the elbow, and Dean could see him tighten his grip as painful spasms rolled over him, leaving him pale and shaking.

"Dean?"

"I'm here. I'm right here."

Sam's eyes were open but unfocused, darting restlessly around the room. "The car. Scratched the car."

"You scratched my car?" Dean put down the Rubik's cube and sat upright. "When?"

"Werewolf. Scratched the Impala," Sam muttered, his eyes falling shut. "Need fire. Gotta cauterize the wounds in the fender."

Dean lurched forward, and laid his palm on his brother's forehead. Sam was burning up. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. Maybe he hadn't been out of it before, but he was now.

The car. Sam mentioned the car. Why didn't he think of that before? They should have some first aid supplies in the trunk. Something for the pain at least. He patted Sam's good shoulder. "Stay put," he said, grabbing Sam's gun from the top bunk. His own was still empty, useless in the pocket of his jacket. "I'll be right back. Everything's gonna be fine."

On the gravel drive, he couldn't resist trailing his hand along the flanks of his baby, illogically relieved to find no scratches despite Sam's incoherent hallucinations. He rounded the driver's side, and stopped dead. In the frost-tinged mud that fanned out from under the tire towards the grass, Dean could see a very clear track. Definitely canine, with its heel pad and four toes and indentations where the claws had scraped against turf.

Dean whipped around, muscles taut with strain.

Nothing moved.

Heart pounding, he looked back toward the cabin, but the gravel leading to the porch was hard-packed and revealed nothing. He turned and took a few halting steps toward the woods they had escaped a few hours before. Dropping clumsily to one knee in the mud and biting off a curse, his fingers traced the outline of Sam's boot print, bigger than his own. Superimposed on top of it, hoarfrost crystals twinkling in the indentation, was the track of a wolf.

Too large to be an ordinary wolf.

Dean had thought with Harper dead that they would be safe in the cabin. But there was another werewolf still prowling out there, one not satisfied with more defenseless prey camping in the woods.

It was hunting them.

He glanced up at the cloudless sky. The moon was just now peeking over the horizon, bone white. It wasn't safe to stay outside now, especially when he could hardly walk. Propping his cane against the bumper, Dean rummaged quickly through the trunk. No more silver bullets. Shoving aside a shovel, he found a small grease-stained paper sack, and remembered what it held. Iron rounds, picked up the last time they saw Pastor Jim.

Quickly, he fed the rounds in the magazine of Sam's gun and one in the chamber too. Then he found the first aid kit and unlatched it, snatching up a pill bottle and shoving it in a pocket. The wind picked up, trailing icy talons down his neck, as he limped quickly back into the house. Tree limbs scraped the outside walls, scritching sounds like rats in an attic. With a shudder, Dean hurried to his brother's side, and bent to brush the back of his shaking fingers against Sam's cheek.

It was cool. The fever had broken.

Dean felt something break inside him too. All the worry and fear had been dammed up, held back by a rigid wall of tasks and responsibility and focus. That dam cracked, and relief flooded though his veins.

Sam fidgeted and moaned, close to waking. Dean remembered it wasn't over yet; he took a shuddering breath, and shored up that inner wall. It would have to hold a little longer.

He leaned forward, and tapped his brother's right temple; just enough to make Sam's eyes fly open. Their father had trained him well. Sam reacted to Dean's expression and went from semi-conscious to alert and still in two heartbeats.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"Trouble. Maybe."

Dean stepped back and Sam held out his good arm, silently asking for help. When he was upright, his face was chalky white and pinched with pain, and Dean was biting his own lip to keep from cursing as his left leg took more of his weight.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

"I think we're being stalked," Dean said. "Duck said the werewolf we killed was Harper – but he thinks there's another one out there, and he's gone out to hunt it." He took a deep breath, and felt his empty gun shift against his ribs. "I dunno, Sam," he said, sitting beside him on the bed. "We don't really know anything about how werewolves think. What made Harper track down Duck? Vengeance, because Duck killed Marie? Self-defense, because he knew Duck was hunting him? When he's in werewolf form, does he even remember those things?"

"Does it matter? You said Harper was dead."

"I know. But some time after he died, a little before dawn I think, a werewolf left tracks outside _this_ cabin, Sammy."

_And there's just the two of us_, he thought_. You're still in school. And we're both hurt. We've never faced anything like this without Dad. I thought I was ready for this – but I'm not. I'm not…._

He looked at Sam, felt the familiar weight of Sam's trust in him, and it shored up his backbone with steely resolve. "I don't get it. There's no reason for it to target us when there's an all-you-can-eat buffet of folks camped out in the woods." He passed over the leather-bound book. "Maybe it won't be back. But take a look in Duck's journal. See if you can find anything that explains how they think."

He patted Sam's knee, then stood and headed out of the room. In the doorway, he remembered something else and reached into his pocket, pulling out a bottle he'd grabbed from the med kit. "Here."

Sam caught it in mid-air, glanced at the label, and set it on the bed, shaking his head. "Vicodin always makes me drowsy. I need my gun, not something that's gonna slow my reactions."

"You're sure?"

Sam simply held out his hand.

Dean hobbled back, and slapped the gun into Sam's open palm. "It's locked and loaded," he said. "Found some ammo in the trunk that we got from Pastor Jim awhile back. Maybe consecrated iron rounds will work better."

"What about you?" A gust of wind pummeled the cabin, rattling the rafters.

"We picked up some silver at the pawn shop last night, remember?" Dean said. "I'm gonna melt it down for bullets."

Sam nodded, and dove into the journal like the geek Dean knew he was. Dean limped off toward the kitchen, and once out of Sam's sight, he leaned against the table, head down. His leg hurt like a son of a bitch. After a moment, he sucked it up and moved on.

Converting the microwave hadn't been the hard part, Dean recalled as he searched the cabinets for what he needed. He'd just removed the rotating glass plate and taped over the holes that admit air to the cooking chamber. He'd used a lathe to create a router bit in the shape of a .45 caliber bullet. The real challenges had been the other components – making a bullet mold and crucible out of something that could handle the heat of molten silver.

Sam had asked why he never put that much effort into school science projects, but Dean had just laughed. School wasn't fun. Or practical. (Unless he was blowing things up in science lab.) This was. Duck had been so pleased with it that he'd traded for it with the really good stuff from his black market stash – morphine.

Damn Duck for his military sense of order – he wasn't a man to leave his tools out, and Dean had no idea where to find the things he'd built years before. He muttered a few choice oaths as he moved on to kitchen drawers, the pantry, and finally found what he needed after exhausting every other nook and cranny, under the kitchen sink.

There'd been a small sterling trophy in the pawnshop, about the size of a shot glass. Dean set it in the ceramic crucible, put that in the microwave, and cranked the timer to go off in 17 minutes.

The cabin was quiet, eerily so, except for the relentless ticking, counting down….

He was pre-heating the bullet molds when his peripheral vision caught a fleeting dark shadow outside the window. Then there was a tremendous crash, shattered glass flying through the air. Something huge-heavy-wet-hairy slammed into him, and carried them both into the main room.

Dean lay stunned on the floor and literally saw stars. Huh. Stars - indoors. And his gun. Where was his gun? Was it still in his pocket? Was it loaded?

His brain seemed to be disconnected from his limbs, but his arms reacted on instinct, swinging the cane with all his might at the werewolf's skull.

It didn't have any effect.

Dean forced the walking stick between its huge teeth and strained to lock his elbows.

He heard an incredible crunch as the cane snapped in two. Desperate, Dean jammed the short broken end of the cane between the slavering jaws.

The creature whipped its head away, jerking the fragment out of Dean's grasp and sending it spinning across the room. Dean twisted and flung out an arm, scrabbling for anything to use as a weapon. There - just beyond his reach - the basket of knitting. Fingers pawed at empty air, and then he had it - grabbed a long knitting needle and pulled it back. He knew it wasn't silver-tipped and would be as useless as a feather. But he had nothing else.

A lamp crashed to the floor on the other side of the room.

The other side of the room?

Dean craned his neck and saw Sam, listing against a table, arms extended, gun held in both hands.

The beast snarled and thrashed, sent them both rolling across the floor. Dean knew Sam didn't have a clear shot, and then his left leg smashed into the couch and his vision went black as pain rocketed up from his shin.

The microwave timer dinged.

The creature raised its head to stare toward the kitchen. Then it turned back toward Dean, midnight blue irises bloodshot and crazed.

Dean was still flailing, trying desperately to stab it in the eye when something clicked, and he suddenly choked in disbelief, "Duck?" Then he cried out as its powerful foreleg bore down on his sternum, pinning him to the floor like a butterfly. The creature's fangs inched toward the rigid column of Dean's exposed throat.

He couldn't move.

Sam fired.

The werewolf recoiled as the bullet struck it in the chest.

The weight fell off Dean's ribcage and he coughed, scrambling to get distance from it.

The air was rent with a mournful howl that made Dean's bones throb like a tuning fork, and a body hit the floor hard.

And then Sam was staggering forward, collapsing to his knees, muttering 'ohmygod, ohmygod', while he grabbed the blanket by the hearth and covered Duck with it, pressing hard against the blood pouring out of his chest.

"Dean – help!" Sam was frantic, and he did what he'd done all his life – turned to his brother to fix things. But Duck raised one arm weakly, batting at him to stop.

"Sam – don't." His voice was strained.

Sam pulled Duck up so that his head was resting on Sam's knees. Then he bent closer to hear what Duck was trying to say while Dean crawled forward through the shards of glass to take hold of Duck's hand.

"Don't," Duck repeated, glancing down at the blood-soaked blanket. "I was a combat medic. I know when it's too late." A look of wonder crossed his face. "You did it. I didn't think it was possible."

"What, Duck?"

"You broke the curse. Why did it work this time?" A cold wind whistled through the room, taking Duck's breath away. He shivered and looked toward the broken window - saw the full moon hanging in the sky, like a bright silver coin to pay the Ferryman for passage to the other side. "The iron, the blood, the name?" he said. "It didn't work with Marie. I couldn't get her back."

"We had consecrated iron rounds, Duck." It was Dean who answered. Sam was choking back tears. "I guess it mattered after all."

The furrows of pain in Duck's face eased a little. "It's over then."

"Duck – no - " Sam's voice cracked.

Duck patted Sam's hand weakly. "Sam? Water …?" The words came out in a raspy plea.

Dean inched closer; nudged Sam away, and took Duck's head and shoulders onto his lap. "Go," he whispered to his brother. Sam stumbled to his feet and moved hesitantly away.

Duck watched him go to the kitchen, then plucked at Dean's sleeve. "Dean, do you remember - how you felt when you made your first kill?"

"Yeah. Sure." Dean breathed out a sigh. His gaze shifted away for a moment, looking inward. "It felt – " he struggled to find the words to describe it. He didn't even need Dad's nod of approval, or the flash of pride in his eyes, to know that it felt right. "Like I'd found something. That I didn't even know I was looking for." There was a note of surprise in his voice.

"Dean – this, _this_, is Sammy's first kill. That one defined you - made you understand who you are. This could destroy Sam. Don't let it." Duck's voice had grown hoarse, and was starting to fade. "Promise me? You'll be there for him?"

Dean took his hand again; squeezed it. "You know I will."

Sam came back, sank to his knees, and held the glass while Dean supported Duck's head. They watched him manage a couple swallows. Then Duck sagged back.

"I guess you figured it out; I got bit when I was in the U.P. where I killed Marie Harper." He paused, grimacing.

"It's okay. Don't try to talk," Dean murmured, but Duck shook his head.

"I want you to know." The water seemed to restore his voice a little. "I quit my job after that, To try to find a cure. Just … ran out of time." Duck turned his gaze to Sam. "At least I found the one that saved Sammy." A coughing spasm interrupted him, but when it passed he added, "John would never have forgiven me - if anything had happened to his boys."

Sam turned anguished eyes toward his brother, found Dean's expression a mirror of his own.

Duck seemed to lose focus a little, his thoughts slipping down another path. "Losing your mom like that - just about killed him. The only way he could go on was to turn soldier again."

He started to wheeze, color draining from his face, but he wasn't finished. "Things your daddy saw, things he had to do, in Vietnam? They still call up nightmares." Duck's eyes sought out Dean's, lingered there. "But he understands, always understood, you do what you have to. No matter the cost." Another cough rattled from his chest, and he gestured feebly for more water.

After a sip, he continued. "Maybe one day he'd drink himself blind again. When he remembered me, remembered this. What he had to do. If he did, you'd understand."

A small sound escaped from Sam.

Duck's voice grew fainter. "I just. Couldn't risk hurting anyone. When my time came. So. That was the plan." This time the cough bubbled up wetly from his lungs. Blood frothed at the corner of his mouth. "Then you showed up. I couldn't ask you - to do what I'd ask of John. I tried - at night - tried to get far enough away - not to hurt anyone…"

"Please, Duck – let us take you to town, to the hospital!" Sam pleaded.

"No! No." Duck grabbed his arm. "It's too late for me. I know that. You know what you have to do. The fire pit, out back. Burn my remains, when I'm gone. Just in case. You'll do that for me?"

Dean was silent, words stuck behind the lump in his throat, and it was Sam who finally took a shuddering breath and answered for them both. "You can count on us, Duck."

"I know I can. You're good boys. I couldn't be more proud of you - if you were my own sons." His voice was almost gone, the light dimming in his eyes. "Take care of each other," he whispered, "and your old man."

The room fell silent.

They burned his remains as he wanted.

"I should have – I don't know. I should have figured it out," Sam said, broken, staring at the flames. "There must have been something else I should have done."

"What Sam? What could you do?" Dean put his hand on Sam's good shoulder, turned him to face him. "You didn't know the consecrated iron rounds would bring him back. And we still don't know if it would have cured him for good. He might have turned again tonight." He tightened his grip on his brother, willing Sam to look at him. "He was going for my throat, Sam! Besides, you know better than to turn down a chance at a kill shot. How many times has Dad drilled that into us?"

"Dad. What are we going to tell Dad?" Sam looked horrified.

"What do you want to tell him?"

Sam couldn't answer. His throat was too raw with emotion. He only knew what he didn't want to tell him. He didn't want to tell his father that he had lost one of the few friends he had.

And he didn't want to tell his father that his youngest son was a coward. Because Sam knew then that he couldn't keep being torn in two any more. He couldn't live this life any more. And he couldn't expect Dean to always fix everything. He didn't know what options he might have after high school, but he was going to start looking. He couldn't be like Dean, and it killed him a little because his whole life he thought he wanted nothing more than to be like Dean. Now he was giving up. As far as his family was concerned, he was a failure.

He looked away from Dean, eyes glistening.

Dean left his hand on Sam's shoulder but gave him some space, tilting his head to watch the smoke curling up over the trees. "You gave Duck what he wanted, Sam," he said softly, wishing that could be enough. Thinking, _you gave him peace. _

_------------_

_**There are some things Dean Winchester knows deep in his bones.**_

_**He knows the sky.**_

_**He recognizes Venus, gleaming brilliantly overhead, the brightest light in the morning sky, and he knows the adjacent spark is Mercury tagging along beside it. He knows they've been like that, only a degree apart, for the last few days, traveling across the sky like brothers on a road trip. But the two planets would inevitably part, and some months one would be seen in the evening sky instead, or disappear for awhile when its orbit took it behind the sun. They're rarely close together in the same sky for long. This week's special. **_

_**Astronomically speaking.**_

_**Of course, Dean Winchester doesn't think in metaphors. **_

_**Doesn't mean they don't apply.**_

_**What he does think about is his brother. His family. Always has. Always will. **_

_**Dean had begun to look forward to hunting with Sam. Had come to rely on his skills; had been discovering just how much his brother is capable of. And despite Sam's geekiness and the occasional teenage bouts of attitude, he really likes having Sam around. **_

_**But maybe that isn't what Sam wants, or needs, he realizes now. **_

_**Dean had promised Duck that Sam's first kill might define him, but he wouldn't let it destroy him. He'd promised Duck that he would be there for Sam – and he'll keep that promise. **_

_**Even if that means letting Sam go.**_

****

**_---------- end -------------_**

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